A Little Taste of Reality
by timenspace
Summary: A Joker Origins, as per tribute to Heath Ledger. Rated T. An ordinary kid doesnt just become a killer overnight. Villains aren't born. They're made. J/HQ. COMPLETE!
1. The Chaotic Anomoly

_**A/N: This is a re-upload due to numerous edits that were made to the story.**_

_**The chapters alternate, the odd are the "present", the even "the past".**_

_**You're not supposed to assume these are Joker's memories, rather, it is a history of how a boy became a scarred clown. It had to start somewhere. I've used some "consensus" tales, as well as my own ideas. Please Rate and Review.**_

_**~Chapter One: The Chaotic Anomaly~ **_

_Anomaly:_ _any occurrence or object that is strange, unusual, or unique. It can also mean a discrepancy or deviation from an established rule._

He wasn't exactly always smiling. It was more like a leer. The scars, it didn't really matter how he got them, not really. Just because they horrified those that he would grin at. He was "always smiling". One ran almost to his ear in a curve, the other was jagged and ugly, halfway up his cheek. Thus, the "smile" was crooked, only one side of his mouth went up, and the dimples that had used to make the ladies swoon and the men jealous, was now accented by those scars, giving a hideous, garish-looking grin. It achieved the affect that those who had inflicted the pain they'd intended: it horrified those he grinned at. They hadn't taken into account he'd relish their avoidable glances at him. As he stares at his reflection in the metal plate they let him use for a mirror, and smears the hair remover across his scarred cheeks, he leers at his image, the scars on his lips spread up, returning to him the image of a manifestation of chaos.

And his eyes, the eyes glare out of his reflection, the crooked smile never reaches his eyes anymore. Sometimes his eyes appear brown, so brown they look black mostly due to the black eye makeup he uses to accentuate them. Sometimes, when he just gives them his crazy side, and that is when they a sort of dark glass, almost a greenish, but different. That's who he is, an agent of chaos, a soldier of fortune, a misinformation who just looks Fate in the eye and accepts just whatever Fate happens to throw at him. Except one thing. The dark creature of the night that refrains himself from killing his victims. The scars are him, just as the creature is, making his life the appearance of completeness.

He doesn't know how he became the scarred piece of - could it be called human? - flesh he is today. He doesn't even remember or know why. All he knows is is all just a stupid joke. Weather its a bad joke or not is up to Fate. Does this look like a face that would lie? The joke is his middle name, after all. He smiles again, the dimples accentuating his twisted mouth and split lips. He knows they're watching him behind that two-way mirror. And so he takes his time, humming a nameless tune as he "shaves". He likes knowing that he is the obsession, _the Anomaly of Arkham_. He almost laughs at his own joke. He's driven a couple of their doctors crazy, lured one, killed a couple... he's lost count of the many students that came to stare at him, to gape. Like a clown at the circus. And he's played the game like a hand of cards. Nobody knew who the "real Joker" was. Even he doesn't remember anymore. Even he doesn't know if a "real Joker" exists. And the one that was supposed to find out had left. Out of the blue, just gone like a puff of a grenade. He shouldn't have "fallen" for her. Should have killed her when he had the chance, should have played his cards with an ace in the hole. Not that it matters anymore. He doesn't have time to think about her.

He'd rather spend his time planning his next mission on the city. And he's gone rogue. He's gone rogue for good this time. No more of this trying to find out who the military person really was. Got lost somewhere in the dry lake bed and and drowned. He grinned again as the guard banged on the door.

"Hey you! Hurry up in there!"

He laughs out loud in response. He knows they are watching. They are always watching. It wasn't like you had to be paranoid to know they were watching, God, there were cameras everywhere, you had to be blind, deaf, and dumb, with multiple persona disorder to know they weren't watching you. He splashes the cold water against his face, and reluctantly bangs once on the door.

"'Bout time, Freak," the guard hisses at him.

They aren't exactly the nicest, most qualified people in the existence of the world, but hey, they were dumb. He succumbs to being fitted back into the straight jacket, and to the normal "therapy" sessions. He didn't mind it when she asked the questions, but then he could play her so well. This new "psych" was so _straight_, so _boring_. A young guy, just out of internship, just into residency. So serious.

He must admit, he kinda likes his no-nonsense manner. _But it's so damn straight-face, logical shit._

"So what is it today, Doc? More shit-nalysis?" he asks with a grin, sitting in the chair. As he grins, the doctor's face doesn't break, and there is no show of emotion but a blink. And he's good at hiding things, and the Joker knows it, even though this is technically the first time they've met. The problem is to break down that "fourth wall", or whatever the fuck they called it.

"Dr. Cunningam. No, this time you get to talk. About anything."

Oh, so now the Doc wants to know what he thinks about at night. What every man thinks about, doesn't he know. He's not as crazy as he's been diagnosed, and he wonders, for just a moment, if the Doc is finally _getting_ it.

"Look, Doc," he begins musingly, but of course, he isn't musing. He's an actor, with a poker face. He's playing his hand in the game, revealing the lower cards, setting the bait. "No psychologist should pretend to understand what he does not understand... Only fools and charlatans know everything and understand nothing."

"Anton Chekov," the Doctor says, bemused, maybe even slightly impressed.

The Joker smiles. The ugly scars spread up his face in horrible grin. The doctor blinks again, slight disgust passing over his eyes.

"So make me understand, what it is I don't. Make me a charlatan, make me a fool."

The Joker grins. This is going to be a very good day. And the day after, the day after would be even better. "Ooh, you can't be a charlatan," he says with an aura of mystery. "That just wouldn't do. You can't savor the little _e-motions_. You're a doctor, you can't _kill_ people." The Joker glances sideways into the doctor's shifty eyes. Oooh, now he has him right where he wants him, and the moment is meant to be savored. The doctor has obviously lost a patient. Recently carried guilt. "Oooh Doctor, maybe that's why you came to Arkham, _hmm_? Because you can't just _let_ people _die_..." He lets his words hang in the air like an empty ghost. The doctor shifts his eyes eyes again, just slightly. The Joker notices. He leers at him, never making direct eye contact, emphasizing his crazed appearance. "Or you did, and they _fired_ you," he adds, without skipping a beat. _Oh, a slight twitch of the lips._

The grin spreads up the Joker's face, up to his eyes, glassy and dark, almost unemotional. So this is what bothers the doctor. The Joker figures he wasn't fired, he just taunts the man to get his hackles up. "What was it, Doctor. A baby? A little child? A mother, perhaps?" His tone is scornful, without pity or remorse.

"I don't have to answer you," he says through gritted teeth. "I'm your doctor."

The spunk is admirable, the Joker admits to himself, but it doesn't show in his leering expression. "Oh really? 'Cause if it weren't for this jacket, I'd figure you were the patient..." he chuckles. The laugh grows and it grows.

"Why do you think it is I don't understand?" he began.

"Why?" Doc was changing the subject again. "Don't understand? You understand everything. You understand...one thing. People die. And they're not coming back. They're either curing the hopelessly ill, or they're stuck-k, like you, Doc, in a mental hospital trying to understand the Factor Ones and the Factor Twos. Why is someone a serial killer? Now there's a question. It's all about why for you, Doctor. And that's not the punchline. It never is. The punchline is...there isn't any." He laughs at his own joke. "There is no reason. It doesn't matter who. It doesn't matter how, it doesn't even matter what. It just is, that it is." He leers again, his lip curls in a scorning tone, his eyes almost green with a lunatic's expression.

"What is?" the Doctor scribbles a note to himself, but all this time, he's been staring at the Freak.

"It is. It just is." The Joker shrugs despite the straight jacket, mirth and scorn mingled together across his sneering face.

"I think you're faking," the Doctor says bluntly, and the Joker must admit, even to himself, he likes the Doctor. But faking? He laughs at that one.

"Faking? _Faking?_" He throws back his head and laughs and laughs and _laughs_. "See, crazy people don't think they're crazy, they think they're getting saner. And sane people think they're getting saner, but they're really going crazy." He chuckles at his own joke, still leering, his eyes wide and glassy again.

"So you think you're crazy."

"Crazy? Nah, I'm not-t."

"Or not."

"See, now we're getting somewhere."

"And you're playing with me," the doctor stares. "Like you do everyone else." He closes his notebook, glaring. "I'm done."

Oh, but the Joker isn't done. "Aw, come on, Doc. Everyone knows I'm a liar. You're going to ruin the fun," he begins to pout, but notices quickly that it isn't going to work to get the doctor to stay. "Look, okay, I'll be serious, alright? I promise."

"But you just said that you're a pathological liar." The Doctor, however had relaxed, forgotten his nerves.

He wags his finger at the Doctor and grins. "You're good, Doc. You're good. Probably don't belong here. Probably got disqualified because of some little _screw-up_, right?"

The doctor is prepared this time. Damn. "Actually no, I applied here, just because I found pediatrics wasn't my field."

The Joker knows half-truths. And he figures the Doctor is lying. And he connects the dots easily. "Ah, something went wrong. You try something else. Something like me and the mob. You know, what I am, Doc? A chaotic anomaly. I upset everything. The scores don't add up."

He plays with the scar on the inside of his cheek with his tongue, and watches the doctor shift as he absorbs the bit of information. It was a reliable trick. It made them nervous. "Scared someone's watching, Doc?" He questions in a mocking tone, "They're watching you, you know. always watching, the dead people, the dead _babies_..."

The doctor abruptly gets up and pushes the button. The guard comes back. "Done with the scum?" he asks with a sneer.

"Yes, actually I am," the Joker answers.

_"Take him back to his cell," the doctor says flatly._ own little game. He doesn't care that they hate him. Any reaction at all makes him gloat. He's gotten to them, gotten to their nerves, evoked a reaction. Created chaos.

The Joker just crows with glee. He's gotten him this time. Beaten the doctor at his

Later, alone in his cell, the Joker thinks over his next trick. He never really liked that quote of Chekov's. Charlatans did good in the world, and he was no hero, that was for sure. Thinking about good in the world made him suddenly think of _her_, always _her_, and how _she_ wasn't there, would never be there...no, not that. It wasn't really that Joker didn't remember, for the memories haunted him like the ghosts of his dead wife, and his dead son, the baby, and that damned sonofabitch that killed them, damned him! Oh no, he didn't _want_ to remember, and then he'd have to _talk_ about that, and he'd be the _fool_ that he really was. And gods, they'd wonder why he'd killed that _brat_ of a boy so brutally... And he didn't want their sympathy. He didn't _need_ their sympathy. He didn't need _anyone_. The Joker laughs. It had all turned out so _wild_, so _damned perfect_...

_(A/N: Doctor Cunningham in my mind looks and appears to be a cross between Doctor Wilson and Doctor Chase from House, MD. If you saw that, as well, then let me know)_


	2. The Court Jester

_**~Chapter Two: The Court Jester~**_

_The Fool (Tarot): mean "the madman" or "the beggar", and may be related to the word for 'checkmate' in relation to the original use of tarot cards for gaming purposes. Though the value is often 0, The Fool, or the Madman seems to trump other cards in the 78 card deck. _

_The Hanged Man is the twelfth trump or Major Arcana card in most traditional Tarot decks. It is used in game playing as well as in divination. It may also be known as The Traitor, particularly in older decks. _

_The Lady (also known as The Empress) stands for the recurring attributes of Mothering, Abundance, Material prosperity, Pleasure, Comfort , Power, Nature, Delight, Desire, Physical attraction, as well as Health and Beauty._

Jack Marone probably doesn't remember how old he was the first time his drunken father beat him. Oh, he remembers the broken bottles on the floor, the smell of the alcohol, and exactly how badly he _hated _that man, but little else. No record truly exists of these events. The only one who would remember them, really doesn't. Jack chooses not to remember his mother's battered face, and his little brother Levi's terrified eyes. It is a simple case of multiple choices for him to remember the taste of blood on his lips and the lopsided "X" carved from his lip to nearly his chin. It's not as difficult as it seems for him to forget lying to his teachers about the numerous black eyes, the broken shoulder, and finally his face.

His eyes must have lied along with his words, a trait that he's carried for years. They say that some liars are genuine, but now, Jack just has a nearly-blank expression. His eyes have almost no connection to the rest of his body. They still twinkle a little when he laughs, but other than that they are dull and emotionless, unless he chooses otherwise.

At any rate, everyone believed his tales. Jack taught his brother, four years his junior to spin yarns. Levi succeeded almost as well as Jack did, even before attending school.

The boys' best hiding place was their mother's closet; where Jack first began to tell stories. Sometimes it was just to entertain his brother, sometimes to entertain himself. Most normal boys that age don't spin fantastical tales of running into walls and getting a black eye. Most boys don't play with their mother's Tarot cards when they are 8 and 4.

Jack dimly remembers his mother finding out about them and her cards. He remembers her name was Rosalie Marone, and how just smiled tiredly, and explained _The Fool _was one of the best cards in the deck. Jack understood more then 4-year-old Levi when his mother told him about the Deck.

_The Hangman_ died, like all mortals. _The Lady _was sort of a double: she was both the protector, and the princess in distress. _The Fool, _however, according to his mother, made the other cards laugh. His laughter was what made him last forever, long after he'd passed into euphoria.

_The Fool _also technically represented the newborn infant or the youngest son. Or so his mother said.

Jack remembered loving the story, and huddling in the closet, long after his brother had fallen asleep, Jack would play with _The Fool. _The thought that someone could live forever, just due to his laughter, made Jack smile, despite the long bruise that ran across his cheek. It hurt to smile. Even though it was pitch dark in the closet, Jack could still picture _The Fool, _something like the guy they'd seen in the movie at school.

He could laugh and tell jokes and the king couldn't ever kill him because the Jester made him laugh. Jack rubs his cheek. His father had struck him for the joke he'd told earlier. He couldn't even remember what it was. Jack's eyes grew heavy, and he drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a prince's costume and telling the king's jokes. He remembered his birthday was in two weeks, April 4th. He'd be nine. Another year and Levi would be in school. Then he'd teach his brother to disappear with the magic kit his mother had promised him...and maybe they'd go to the circus later in the year...even though Jack knew that his mother would try to make him happy, and his father would ruin it.

Someday he'd fool his father, just like _the Fool _in the story.

Jack drifts off in Neverland, dreaming of clowns entertaining kings, and the king couldn't kill them because the clowns were magic. They always disappeared.

He remembers more than he seems to, but he just chooses to lock away the memories like Mom used to lock the closet. It protects him, it's his safety net. Jack remembers bits and pieces, not all of them pleasant. There really is one reason he remembers: the nightmares.

There's a reason why Jack rarely sleeps. And it isn't just the madness. He isn't crazy, but he isn't always faking either. Like _The Fool, _you don't know if he is leaping to his death, or making a leap of faith.

_A/N: I realize the chapter is short, and technically Jack's mother just made up the philosophy of the Fool. There are bits of truth to it, but Tarot cards are complicated to explain. The Fool, as has been established, is often related to the Joker, and depending on the game, will either trump all other cards (as in "War") or will be a card to be avoided (as in "Old Maid"). Wikipedia was one of the sources that I used for information for this chapter. _


	3. Gone Batty Gone

_**~Chapter Three: Gone Batty Gone~ **_

_Gone batty: an archaic phrase usually referring to an obsession that drives one crazy, or the act of being driven to insanity in and of itself._

He chuckles as they lock the cell again. It was all very funny how everyone has gone crazy. The Joker knows that it's not just him. They think that he'd would like to kill Batsy. He probably would, but technically the opposite is true.

The stupid Doctor with all of his stupid questions. At least he'd finally extracted some information from the tight-lipped intern. He'd lost a baby in pediatrics. He'd done his best to save her, was even commended for his efforts, but in the end, the child died. He'd tried so hard, but in the end it didn't matter.

The Joker laughs again. That was the punchline wasn't it? It didn't matter what you _did, _in the end, Fate always made the choice. You just had to go with the flow. The Joker toys with the scars. The long time they were giving him solitary is boring. Oh, he's getting plenty of visitors, and plenty of media attention. And since he is working up the insanity plea so he wouldn't go to Black Gate, well, that's just perfect.

Besides, Black Gate reminds him of a black cape, makes him think of the life he wasn't living, the chaos he wasn't causing. His City he wasn't scaring the _hell _out of anymore. Batso had been out of the game since taking the blame for two years....The Joker laughs at his own rhyme. The whole thing is stupid.

Even someone with schizophrenia could probably see that it wasn't Batman, but the Ace in the Hole. Harvey Dent. The crazy attorney that in the end, wasn't so different. Sure, Joker knew that eventually Harvey would slip up and end up dead. But that's what he wanted in the long run, right? He helped Joker in his cause, and Joker helped him in his, sort of. It was just all so funny how Fate shaped her house of cards. And the Batman was the funniest joke yet. In his long hours waiting for a visitor, Joker thinks. He remembered trashing the party, how just gloriously _fun _that all was, with all those upper-class, persnippity-nosed people so damned _scared, so terrified _of him. He's just a toy of Fate's, _and they are terrified. _And he laughs as he remembers that look on Bats' face in the interrogation. That _glare._

"For a while there, I thought you were Dent. The way you _threw_ yourself after her."

How angry he'd been, those dark midnight eyes just turning _mad_, just blazing to _kill, _letting the _animal, the beast, _takeover, just once.

_"WHERE ARE THEY?"_

The pain to his head must have jogged his memory. He'd never seen the playboy at that party. Bruce Wayne. Just the damned Bat.

Joker giggled at the memory. _Bruce was BATS!_ Oh the _scandal! _The utter_ chaos! _Instead of chasing girls like he appears, he dresses in a suit, and _beats up on people. _

"So who's it gonna be? The lifesaving attorney or his blushing bride-to-be?" He couldn't hold back the chuckle at the _rage, the madness _in _his eyes. _The billionaire's eyes.

"You have nothing, nothing to threaten me with, nothing to do with all your _strength." _A rich kid can't outsmart someone who's been raised on the streets.

"WHERE ARE THEY?"

Oh, Joker licked his lips, remembering the taste of blood, the pain in his throbbing head, and just how _damn funny _it was. How good it hurt.

Too bad he hadn't thought of it at the party. It would have been fun then. What crazy doesn't come to his own party, even in a disguise? It didn't make a lot of sense. Getting rid of his lady friend was easy, and it was just the beginning.

Bats just let him _mention_ Dent's assistant and he just went _crazy_. For once he had the upper hand. Right where he wanted him. And the plan got set in motion. Then for once he'd change things. Forever. It was like a dozen houses of cards. Flick one, and the whole thing goes, it all burns. Collapses on top of each other. Nobody would get how funny it is. Figures.

Billionaire loves the DA's Assistant. But the Billionaire is a vigilante. The whole thing was just too funny.

"Visitors." They bang on the door. He doesn't move off the bed.

They thought they could make him feel again. They just didn't get the whole thing. They think that he is suicidal or just don't get it. He gets it. He gets the joke perfectly. It's so funny, it kills. They don't get the no-remorse thing. Do they think they can recreate his life? He's done that already. Even he doesn't remember. He'd rather not remember, rather be telling the truth about the scars every time. And they put him in the damned straight-jacket. Despite all his threats, he doesn't really want to die. There was a time the joke should end, yes, but that didn't mean he wanted to die.

Too bad his city hadn't laughed over his joke, but sometimes Fate just deals the cards wrong.

They all say that he's crazy.

He might be crazy, but he isn't _insane _enough to dress up like a bat an lead a double life.

Too bad he couldn't share the joke. Too bad sharing the joke would ruin all the fun.

(A/N: this was just my perspective of what happened in the interoggation in TDK)


	4. Premonition

_**~Chapter Four: Premonition~  
**_

_Premonition: refers to a situation when future events are foreknown, forecast, or foretold. Some people attribute them to the presence of supernatural and paranormal abilities (aka Cassandra Myth). However, the distinction between precognition and ordinary evidence-based predictions is sometimes not made sharply. "Premonition" may define to include or exclude ordinary predictions, and this means a fallacy of linguistic ambiguity can lead to an overly supernatural explanation for the accuracy of predictions. _

Something hung in the air that night. Maybe it was because they'd seen the dissected frogs today in class, but Jack sensed it. He walked alone, his hands in his pockets, his tattered jacket wrapped around him, dragging his battered tennis shoes as he walked away from the bus stop. His mother had promised him a magic kit and new shoes for his birthday. Jack figured his father would be tight-fisted about it, so he prepared himself to be satisfied with one, or the other. Rumor was Eli Marone worked for the Mob. Whatever it was he made, Jack never saw a dime of it. His father probably invested it in the alcohol and cigarettes, Jack thought bitterly. He worried about his mother.

He figured that lately she hadn't been sleeping, her eyes had dark circles, she'd been working late. Even though Jack wasn't quite yet nine, his luminous gold-brown eyes took in everything. He knew that when his father called his mother "a slut", among other vulgar things, it made her cry. He at least knew that "Boombeeyada" made her smile. Even though Levi played piano better than Jack, Mom always begged Jack switch from playing the bass to the treble. Jack knew that "Boombeeyada" probably wasn't the real name of the song, but he didn't care. Mom always called it that. Maybe tonight he'd teach Levi the complex part of the bass. Maybe then, Mom would smile. Something told Jack that piano playing wouldn't occur tonight.

He kicked something with his foot. Jack looked a few feet away from his raggedy tennis shoes. A glinting object caught his eye. Jack picked it up and tried opening it, but only ended up cutting his hand, and realizing it was a switchblade. He didn't cut his hand, badly, but it was enough to make him run the rest of the way home. Rose stitched up and bandaged Jack's hand - and thoroughly embarrassed him by kissing the bandage in front of Levi. Jack wouldn't admit to anyone - except himself, maybe - that his mother's display of affection made him feel warm. That she let him keep the knife with the amethyst handle was even better, but on the condition Jack wouldn't take it to school.

But what eight-year-old listens to reason? Jack was smart enough not to show it off, and since he didn't have that many friends, there really wasn't one to show it off to. The next day, Jack didn't lie how his hand got wounded, mostly because he had no real reason to. Well, he told them he was helping his mother cook for the first time, and it was an accident. Wouldn't you know that the kids in his class didn't believe him. But it really didn't matter to Jack. He'd gotten a little attached to the offending blade with the pink-purple handle and the "J" carved in the middle. The knife had hurt him the first time, but that night, with his knife and his _Fool _card, he felt almost as safe as Levi did with his stuffed dog and the _Lady_. Jack, however, felt grown up. Almost a man. In another year he'd be ten, almost ready for middle school. Almost grown. Ready to take his mother and brother as far from Gotham as possible, leave his father in a stupor. They'd go to the big Catholic school in Seattle like his mother had always dreamed. And Jack would pick out someone for Mom. Or maybe no one at all. Served his father right, _the bastard sonuvabitch, _he thought. Jack was too young to know exactly what all the words meant, but he did know where and when to use them, and they meant bad, _bad _things.

He played with the knife in his pocket, barely listening in history class, running his thumb over the "J". J could be for a joke, like one told to the King, could be for his name, could be for jewelry, could be for almost anything Jack wanted it to stand for. He liked to think it stood for his name, maybe the _Lady _had dropped it out of the sky to aid the _Fool _on his journey...maybe the knife had dropped by magic. He snapped out of his dream when the teacher called on him, and even then, he smoothed over the question. Maybe the knife brought good luck.

A month later, Jack doubted the "lucky knife". His father had flown into a rage at seeing it, but Jack had kept it. Mom had surprised him with both the magic kit and the new shoes. Jack wore the shoes every day, but the magic kit stayed hidden in the rack in his mother's closet. He hadn't been able to try it out yet. And science class, that was such fun. Once they'd gotten past dissecting frogs and the little things with nature, this week was a chemical reactions video, and Jack stared happily at the "A" in his gradebook. It wasn't that Jack wasn't a good student. Writing class was okay, but they didn't study the interesting stuff, the class was for girls. Telling even the old scary ghost stories Jack remembered from long ago were too creepy for the female-dominated class. Except Sharon.

Jack glanced over at her. The girl was playing with her glasses and chomping on a piece of gum. She was in Jack's writing class, and she always wrote stuff like, 'you can't take it with you when you die.' and "hell is a place that the bad dead people go." Just things a nine-year-old would think were insightful, even though the rest of her classmates thought she was a freak.

"'Bye." She waved to Jack as she got off on the stop just before his. He just pretended to be looking in his notebook. Mom would be proud of that A, but not so happy with the D in history. Jack _hated _it was so _boring _to hear about people that were dead. Jack wanted to play the piano, conquer the stage, do _something. _He didn't just want to be the deadbeat loser his father was.

He got off his stop as usual, dragging his feet. Sometimes he hated going home. He didn't particularly like school, but it was a Friday. He'd have to be around his father all weekend. And he had a really bad feeling about this. They said that sometimes people fly off the handle, and then people end up dead.

Jack was worried. Every weekend his father ended up more and more angry. Angry at absolutely nothing. Nothing at all.

In the end of Mom's story the other night about _The Fool, The Hangman, and The Lady, The Lady_ danced with _The Fool_, for if she were to dance with_ The Hangman_, she would become mortal. Even though _The Hangman_ offers mortal love, it doesn't last forever. _The Fool_ offers happiness. If _The Lady _chose _The Fool, _she wouldn't love him, because he was too free-spirited. However, _The Lady_ would be happy. If she chose _The Hangman_, she would feel love, but he wouldn't love her in return, because he would die, killing her in the process, because _The Hangman_ was _The Traitor_. She'd told Jack he and Levi could make _The Lady's _choice that night. And she'd tell them the ending. Jack wondered if there was more to it than just a story.

Mom said it meant that Love didn't always let you live, but what you didn't know might kill you. Jack wasn't sure what she meant, and even though he was only ten, he knew that she was getting more and more afraid of Eli. He didn't even think of him as "Dad" anymore. He said the words, but they didn't mean anything.

Jack didn't know why, but he had a very bad feeling about this, despite his good grades.

If he knew how right his premonition was, Jack might have not walked home that night.


	5. Blowing it Out of Proportion

-1_**~Chapter Five: Blowing it Out of Proportion~ **_

Dr. Cunnigam sifts through "Joker's" file. No name. No other alias, no past other than the arrest 10 years ago by the GPD. First appearance in Gotham City was 10 years ago. He'd escaped Arkham with no help at all. The Doc wonders if he's planning to do it again. Even Dr. Quinzell had been lured into his reign of terror, disappearing, and then reappearing as the crazed Harliquin. The killer that left Joker cards.

Dr. Cunningam reads through her file, fearful he is falling into the Joker's snares. One joker card falls out, along with her revoked credentials. Written on the back of the card is scrawled:

_Despite what everyone here thinks,  
Jacks isn't a monster.  
He's been failed by the system,  
And I'm the only one that can help him._

The Doc wonders if the Joker knows or even cares where she is. Harliquin hadn't shown up in almost five years. Reese Cunnigam wonders if Dr. Quinn can help him solve the case. Figures the people at Arkham would give him the unbreakable. Punishment for…

Reese grinds his palm against the one side of his face. It had only taken a session and a half, and the Joker already had him nailed down.

They'd said he was like this, but not like _that._ The supes said the Joker liked him. _Like a toy, _the Doctor thinks wryly. The supes didn't care. As long as they have their normal weekly videos to open a beer over, it didn't matter.

Reese bit his lip as he continued with the file. He didn't get why the ferry experiment interested him best. Two ferries, both rigged. Who was the most self-preserving? The criminals? Or the innocent women and children? Technically neither one, for neither had pulled the trigger.

_But that just proves that one is either cowardly, or just not willing to take a life, _the Doctor thinks wryly, surprising himself with his analysis of the Joker's logic – except it wasn't really logic.

What had happened to the guy? He was pretty proud of those scars, but it didn't really make sense. Any blind person could see that, despite the million-to-one stories the doctor sifted through, he figures the Joker never had told the truth about them yet.

The memory must just be too painful. Thinking about such a crazed killer in such pain made the Doctor wonder. He stares through the two-way. The Joker just sits there, demurely, staring at the door, just waiting to play the game. Games. Card games…Reese wracks his brain, trying to remember med school. He was the geek that paid attention, despite playing euchre tournaments and poker on the weekends. He's going to have to play the game, but he does have one desperate question: Who was Dr. Quinzell, really? Had he killed her or was she alive somewhere? The Doctor doubts that the Joker will tell him if he cared, frankly the Doctor wondered if such a demented mind was capable of caring about such things.

The doctor strides in like he owns the place, flips the file on the table toward the Joker, and sits down, flipping open his notebook.

"Good day, today, eh Doc?" the Joker's face lights up just slightly, wondering what games the Doctor has to play today.

"I'd like to think so," he says.

"Not plagued by the ghost anymore, huh?" The Joker leers, knowing he still has the upper hand. "See Doc, just trying to forget isn't going to make it go away. Instead you're just stuck with the crazies."

Reese leaped on the last statement like a cat, but he was making a modest bet. "Oh, so today, you're crazy?"

The Joker grins. Oh, you wanna play Doc? Fair enough. Bring it. "Not really," the Joker says mysteriously. "I just don't' want to go to Black Gate." He kept the loathing out of his tone. Black Gate he'd end up with no attention, or maybe unwanted attention.

"Whether or not you go there depends on my report. Is it because of the ferry?"

The doctor's found out something, probably got the joke, the Joker thinks with glee. "Ferry?" He feigns not remembering.

"You're just faking because you failed…but technically you succeeded, sort of," Doc explains.

"Oh?" This he's gotta hear. Somebody's finally getting. Again. Whatever he has, he's gotta find a way to replicate it. Contagious insanity. It was all just too good.

"You technically proved the city was a bunch of cowards."

Joker couldn't help but throw back his head and laugh. "You. I like you. You _get _ the jokes."

Doc smirked. "Thanks."

Joker knew now he was going to bait him with something, let him off his guard. Something really stupid like _her. _He didn't really think it was funny, just thought himself horribly smart, he was thinking that the humor was demented. At least it was a start. Doctor number 3 gone crazy. Just perfect.

"What about Dr. Quinzell?" he asks.

"What about her?"

The doctor noted his reaction, and wrote a (K) in his notebook, without exactly looking at it, not wanting to break the halfway eye contact he had with the Joker. "She was your doctor."

The Joker shrugs. "All in the file," he says, licking his lips.

"It also says you two.."

The Joker began to grin. "Oh, you, you're looking for a double war, eh, Doc?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"You're going to ask me if I know where she is. No I don't. You're gonna want to track her down 'cuz you think she can help you with this whole thing. And you think, just maybe, you'll get laid." The Joker's eyes twinkled, but damn he was jealous of that man. If he touched Harley, he'd wish he was dead.

The doctor drew back, thrown completely off by the cardplay.

"She won't fall for it, Doc. I don't even know how crazy she is. Haven't seen her in five years." For once in his life, Joker was telling the truth.

"Why didn't you…"

"Report her missing? She left of her own accord, Doc. She's a woman. Crazy, but still free white and 32, now," The Joker shrugs again. He doesn't care.

"Must've hurt when she left."

"Nah, not really. She was just a girl ya know, just happened to be _my _girl." He isn't exactly telling the truth, Joker's been wounded too much to be hurt again, so he was just pissed. He considered going after her, bringing her back, setting the bitch straight, but Albuerto made him reconsider it. He'd said she'd come around, but she never had. Maybe because he threatened to kill her if she ever returned, but he doubted it. It hadn't stopped her before. The doctor would be his tool to bring her back, and as long as he kept up the "don't care" act. He didn't really; he just didn't want a possession of his getting hurt was all.

"Then maybe you were mad. Maybe you killed her for leaving."

He'd thought about it. "Nah, she's crazier than I am." He knows the Doc doesn't believe him, but he really doesn't care. She'd come back. She liked him too much to stay away for too long. He didn't really feel the same way about her, but she didn't care.

"Do you know where she is?"

He shrugged again. "Last I heard she was in Seattle." Working in a hospital of all things. He blew up hospitals, didn't she know. It was probably just a rebellion thing. She'd grow out of it.

"Where?"

The Joker shrugs again. "You're desperate to find out whether I tell you or not. Frankly I don't know." The doctor did poorly at hiding his disgust. He left the room rather abruptly. Joker calls after him, "You can't cure me, doc. Not even Harley could do that." He chuckles. The whole thing was just funny. And he'd called it before the Doc had even figured it out. Preemptive bets on human nature hadn't always worked for him. Not that he'd _failed, _oh no in playing with Fate, you couldn't _fail, _because Fate always dealt differently, at random. Fair. Chaos. He giggles again when they lock the cell door. The whole thing with Doc getting the joke was just great.

He knew Doc would find Harley. Though he didn't trust the little _bitch _ as far as he could throw her despite his claims, he really didn't care. Just if some other dumbo swindled her, he'd kill them, no doubts about it.

One of the reasons she was so crazy was because she was in love. Imagine. In love with the Joker. She'd left because she couldn't deal the cards or take the hand that dealt them. He didn't tell her she had to leave, he wasn't _that _stupid. Not every girl on the street gives it to him willingly no matter how high a price he offers.

He was used to that. Nobody could deal with him, just like nobody could deal with Fate. It was like dancing with the devil…if he existed. If any of those powers existed, they sure didn't give a damn. Probably liked watching the world burn. And _they _ thought he was evil. Of all the nerve.

Priceless.


	6. A Death in The Family

_**~Chapter Six: A Death in the Family~**_

_**  
("Wanna Know How I Got These Scars?")**_

Jack walked in the house, carefully opening the door, careful not to let the lock click. The tiniest noise made his father fly into a rage.

"How was school, hon?" Mom called from the kitchen.

"Fine."

She came out, drying her hands on her apron. "Did you get your grades today?"

Jack saw his father, for once interested in what he'd gotten. "Yeah," Jack answered, fighting not to shake. He handed his gradebook to his mother, but his father snatched it out of her hands. _Perfect, _he thought, _I'll never hear the end of the D in history and the C in writing. Perfect, Mom, just perfect._

"What's this?" his father raged at the book. "Are you retarded? What _is _this, huh? A D! What the _fuck?"_ After ripping the report out of the notebook, crumpling it into a ball and throwing it at Jack, he got in his son's face. "What do you think you are, genius?" Jack didn't answer. "Huh?" His father forced him to look in his face. Jack wished he'd figured out how to disappear with the damned magic kit.

"What did you get in science, hon?" Mom asked in a small voice.

"What is it to you, _bitch?" _his father demanded. Jack sighed, just slightly. His mother knew how to divert his father's attention, but it didn't always bode well. "What's it to you? You and your _god-damned _crazy cards, _witch!"_

"I just..."

"And you gave that knife back to him didn't you? _Didn't you?"_

She didn't reply. "Give me the knife, son." Jack felt like he was frozen to the spot. He'd be in double trouble now if he pulled it out. He didn't like disappointing his mother. His father was right. He was retarded. "Give me the god-damned knife!"

Jack pulled the pink-purple handled blade out of his jacket pocket. He saw the sadness in his mother's eyes. He'd promised. His father flicked out the blade and held it up to his mother's face. "What's this bitch, huh?"

"He...he..." his mother wouldn't betray him, Jack knew, unless his father forced it out of her, which unfortunately, he'd just done.

"You gave him a knife?" he demanded. Jack hadn't really seen his father so furious, so angry, so rampaging.

"Ja..." Levi ran up to his brother, burying his face in his chest.

"You shoulda stayed in the closet, Lev," Jack murmured, ruffling his brother's hair.

Levi shook his head, dark curls pressing against Jack's chest. His father continued to rage against his mother. And Jack felt glued to the spot, like he couldn't move no matter how hard he tried. He didn't want his brother to see it, he didn't want to see it. Lev had dark hair like his father's, but it was baby soft, and the curls often fell in his eyes. He lifted his head, his terrified blue eyes wide with fright.

"You think I don't do enough around here, _bitch? _The cops woulda busted us, today, but I saved our asses. And how do you reward me, huh, bitch? You raise retards. What is your problem? Did you _fuck _the mailman or something? Really."

"Please Eli, just put the knife down," his mother pleaded, breathing to keep her voice even. "Just breathe, just put it on the counter. Calm down."

His mother's courage was admirable. "I could just shove this knife down your throat..."

"Dad, please!"

"Stay out of this Jack!"

"Shut up, bitch!"

Jack didn't realize how fast his father really was, but it all looked like the painful slow motion of a horror movie that the kids at school had talked about, as his father slashed the blade across his mother's face. Jack closed his eyes tight, and held Lev tight against his chest. He didn't want his brother to see what was going on. He opened his eyes to see the stunned look on his mother's bloody face.

"Mom!" he screamed. But his father dropped her to the floor.

She gasped, coughing. Trying to speak. "Jack..."

His father then approached him, and pulled Lev away from him. His father held the blade up to his son's lip. "I'll kill you if you say anything..." Then he noticed Lev, collapsed to the kitchen floor, sobbing. Frozen in place. "Better yet, I'll kill...him."

His father gestured to Lev. "So serious, Jack. What's wrong?" his father's mocking tone was almost too much. Jack bit his lip. "Aw, open your mouth, c'mon." His father used the blade to pry his mouth open.

Jack tasted the blood on his lip as his father pressed the blade into his hand, and shoved him away. Finally the tears began to trickle down Jack's cheeks, running in their little rivers. His lip throbbed, and he felt dizzy.

"Mom?" he choked out the words.

She gulped for the air that just didn't appear. "Be...brave...Jack..." Her eyes rolled, and she faded. Jack knew she was dead.

"Mom? Mom!" Lev started screaming.

"She's dead, Lev." Jack murmured huskily. "And now, I'm gonna do it." _I'm gonna kill that bastard. I am. _

After bandaging up his face, Jack and his brother hid in the closet that evening. It took a long time for his brother to finally fall asleep. Jack had to control himself as he tried to finish the story of the Lady and the Traitor.

The Lady chose the Fool, and even though he didn't really love her, she lived happily ever after, dancing on the clouds, and the Fool in euphoria.

Jack didn't sleep. When Lev finally drifted off to Neverland, Jack sat in the closet, listening to his father's drunken snore. He couldn't kill him, not yet. He had to make his father suffer first. And they couldn't just run away. His mother's family was in Kansas somewhere. He wished he'd paid attention. Jack stared at the alarm clock on his mother's dresser. He had to get up for school, his father wouldn't do it. And he had to take Lev with him, he didn't feel safe leaving his brother with the bastard. That wasn't his father. It was a monster that hid under the bed and stabbed you in the dark.

Jack wondered what would happen to his mother. His father wouldn't think of burying her, would he? Jack remembered the hamster they had when he was Lev's age, and after his father had thrown it against the wall, they'd buried it in the backyard. That might be an okay place for his mother.

Jack felt numb. He didn't want to go to school tomorrow. And his father probably wouldn't care. But he just had to get out of the house. He felt the blade in his pocket again. He'd kill his father with the same blade. It was justice.


	7. Like You

"Holly, um, Miss McDermott?"

A nurse wheels by a patient, a questioning look on her face. "All right, move him to level 4, they'll take care of him there. Yah, Doctor?" her distinct Brooklyn accent sounds a little out of place in the Seattle hospital.

She looks up from her clipboard into the face of a rather young man, rather attractive looking. He's looking inquisitively at her as though he doesn't quite believe who she is. She wonders if he's dead, and she is so mad 'cause she is still foolish enough to be in love with him. She looks at him oddly as though that isn't quite her name, before checking her clipboard once more.

"Dr. Quinzell?"

She looks up in shock. No wonder he's looking at her like that. He's expecting someone older, someone who looks like they have a twisted mind. He doesn't expect her. And she knows that for just the briefest of seconds, he's forgetting that she's a killer.

"He's not gone and blown himself away already, has he?" She surprises herself with her even tone. "Not that I'd care," she added, knowing she was just lying to herself.

_Lying doesn't become you Harliquin._ His voice, his _smile, _leering at her. Damn. Why did he always have to haunt her. Damn that man. Damn him. Even though she was still hopelessly in love with him.

"You treated him…"

The puzzle pieces are falling into place. The Doctor's stuck, he needs her to break him. Problem is, she can't – or maybe it's that she won't or maybe it's because – oh God, he's looking at her like the Joker's some kind of pervert, gosh, doesn't he know how old he is? Probably nobody knows. Probably nobody knows he likes two kinds of pudding on his birthday…

"I don't know about_ that_," she says, wondering if being someone's lover is considered treatment…probably not by traditional _psychological _standards.

"Look, I'm sorry to barge in your life like this…"

"Yah think?" Not that she minds. She's been waiting for some kind of incentive to return. Not that he would ever call her back. He didn't possess those kinds of feelings. He did, after all, almost threaten to kill her if she returned.

"But I need your help."

Jacks' laughter was the first thing that crossed her mind. He'd think this was hilarious. She threw up her hands. "It's in the file. What did you expect to learn from a killer?" The doctor was taken aback. "Oh yes, doctor. He drove me crazy with love. And he got some out of the deal." She turns away, a little ashamed of herself.

"Do you still love him?"

She doesn't expect a young guy to be so unfortunately perceptive. She spins to face him. "Once he hooks you, it doesn't mean you can't swim again, but you're still hooked." Noticing the awkward situation, she motioned him to join her in the laundry closet. "Did he tell you where to find me?"

"More or less.'

She nodded her heart accelerating. That meant he'd known where she was. And he hadn't come after her. "And?"

"I think you're perceptive about him."

_Not really Doctor, I just know the game. But without rules, what's the use of playing?_ "You got his first joke, didn't you?" she asked quietly.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Something he did or said made perfect cognitive sense. Or you realized something about him you didn't think he knew."

"Sort of." He appears shifty, not wanting to admit his guilt in furthering the cause of madness.

"His obsession with cards?" She didn't use her own example, it was far too complex. _What if the ferries were rigged to blow their own ship. And Bats. He knows who he is, but he won't tell... _

"No, the ferry thing."

"Ten years ago." She blinks as though it's an old story she's overlooked.

"Yeah. He didn't prove people believed in good. It was a win-win situation. He just proved they were stupid. It's a damned-if-you-do-damned-if-you-don't situation."

She looked up. "I hope you didn't tell him…" She cut herself off when she saw the guilty look on the doctor's face. Interns!

"Why's that?" In training they're taught it'll break the ice. The Joker's a different tale altogether.

"Basic rule of the Joker, you _don't_ tell him that you get his jokes, _EVER._ That means he likes you enough to lure you."

"They say he likes me.." the intern was a little creeped out by her words.

_Oh, come on. He doesn't even like guys. He isn't in that sense._ But it could have all just been an act for her benefit, she wonders. "It means he likes you well enough that you're smart enough to get his jokes. And now he'll start playing games. You'll start making reports like he wants you to, probably not because he's threatened your life and scared the hell out of you, but because he really is crazy."

She knew it didn't make a lot of cognitive sense, but that was the point. The Joker didn't make sense.

"Harleen…"

"It's Holly, now doctor."

"Sorry. Just please can you come back? He'd probably love to see you."

"Too much," she mutters, thinking of the old days, light fondness in her voice.

"You didn't answer my question Doctor."

"Not really a doctor anymore."

"Do you still love him?"

She pauses. "I don't know." She said slowly, after all he'd been, after all he was, she wasn't sure. "He wasn't the best relationship. Besides, I don't think he could love anyone else."

"But what about you?"

"I still love him, yeah, ashamedly. But yeah. For some reason I can't…"Then she realizes he hasn't gotten the point she's been trying to make. "But like I say, he can't love _anyone _else."

"I suppose that's true."

_By the Empress, these interns were dense._ She shook her head. "You don't understand."

"What?"

"He _did_ love. Something happened. It haunts him, even though he thought it'd burn all away. Even though _he's_ forgotten."

"You're saying he doesn't remember feelings?"

"He does and he doesn't. It's the only way he survives without just dying. He wouldn't survive if the person he was finds out what he's become. Believe me, I tried."

"You tried? The reports…"

"After _we_ left Arkham. I'll never do _that _again." She shuddered, remembering the after-effects.

"What happened?"

"I'd rather not…"

"Please, just help me…" the doctor was pleading. Wanting to help the Joker would just drive him deeper. But she could be wrong. Maybe he was a better person.

'Fine, I'll tell you. Just if I find out you told Jacks, I'll kill you." And she meant it. The pet name however caught the doctor's ear.

"Jacks?"

"Mhm. And Mista J and Puddin'."

"Puddin'?"

"You didn't know?" He's a doctor, and Jacks hadn't told him how much he liked pudding. Just Jell-O in a cup, homemade, didn't matter the flavor. On his birthday especially. Something else must've happened over the last four years.

"You're avoiding the subject."

"I put him on a cocktail: anti-anxiety, a rather light sedative, and an anti-depressant. He didn't like taking them, but he had to keep going on his next plan." She chooses to eliminate his deathly loathing - which she catagorized as a suppressed fear - of needles. Even though he probably got shots every day, he hated them. They'd just use it to torture him further. They already knew he hated casserole.

"Sounds normal."

"Well, he goes and blows this place up, an' comes back to Headquarters and that night, for no reason, he just starts crying, blubbering-like." She couldn't believe she was saying this. It felt like betrayal.

"He regrets?" It was a little much for the doctor to picture what he thought of as a monster crying.

"No! He's – like I told you – haunted. You could say he's a tortured soul. And it wasn't because he actually felt it, it was an after-effect, I just wanted you to know about the cocktails with him, that's all. 'Cause next morning, he finds out and one of his henchmen musta said somethin' cuz e flies into a rage, an' kills him. That's how I got this." She shows him the almost untraceable scar that runs down her cheek. "Accept that he can't be cured. He can't live with it."

"With what?"

It felt like if she told, she would have betrayed complete trust. Nobody else knew, and the doctor would end up asking. It wasn't like she didn't think about that he could kill her for saying so, but she didn't think that he would tell her secrets. Maybe he would, but probably not if it meant protecting her. She doesn't tell him the occasions that Jacks acted like he was seeing someone else in replacement of her face. She doesn't tell him about playing the part of the stranger she didn't know.

"If he wants to tell you, what it is, he will. Just know this: he does have feelings. He just doesn't remember what they are like."

"Come back."

"I'm wanted."

"I'd think he'd want to see you. You were - -" She doesn't like the thought of the young man knowing what they were.

"He could've gotten from me from anyone he wanted. By force or otherwise." And sadly, she knew it was true.

"He said you wouldn't be easy to come back. Said something about double…"

_Double war. _She smiles faintly, thinking of his protective – _no, possessive_ – ness. "He does know me. Almost too well."

"He did say you'd come back, but it wouldn't be easy. Please, can you do it for him? Even though even he doesn't know it, I think he needs you."


	8. As the World Burns

_**~Chapter Eight: As the World Burns~**_

_**  
(only photo in existence of Jack Marone shortly before the death of his mother)**_

They buried Mom under the willow, just like the hamster. Seeing his mother so cold and stiff when she'd always been so vibrant and full of life, was enough to bring hot tears to Jack's eyes, yet he quickly wiped them away before Lev noticed. He didn't have a choice now, he _had _to stay strong - for Lev. His mother's final words reechoed in his head.

"Be strong, be brave.." And by God, he was going to do it. He took his brother to school with him on Monday. He wasn't going to leave him alone with that _bastard _again. Jack hid his brother in the Maintenance closet. Brought him lunch, let him figure out the magic kit.

For another month and a half, until school let out, Jack took his brother with him everywhere he went. He fought to make everything a mini adventure for his five-year-old brother. It was complicated, and took a lot of creativity. For once in his life, Jack wished someone would even call him into the office and ask, "Are you okay?" for no reason at all, but knowing himself too well, he'd probably clam up and not say a word out of fear. But as "the system" would have it in for him as it always seemed to for the rest of his life, they failed, and they failed rather miserably.

Jack returned home with Lev one night only to find cops in the front yard. Jack hid the cheese block he'd stolen out of the cooler in Lev's backpack, even before his brother noticed. Actually finally they were going to have grilled cheese for the fifth time this week, but Lev could eat 3 in one setting, and was always hungry an hour later. So Jack was forced to steal again. He hadn't been caught...yet.

As Jack and his nearly-six-year-old brother cut across the neighbor's lawn, Jack saw two other cops in the backyard. Black plastic was draped over what used to be Mom, and the willow was dug around. Jack covered his nose. It smelled horrible. When he realized in horror it was his mother, and the neighbors had called the cops, he wasn't sure what to feel, this meant his mother would at least get a decent burial for once, but then what would happen to them? As long as his mother watched over them like the _Lady _in the willow, they'd be safe. His father would accuse him of telling the cops. They wouldn't find anything, and Lev, Jack couldn't bear to lose his baby brother. Too bad the neighbor had complained. It wasn't _his_ fault.

"Stay here, Lev."

"Buf Jay..."

"No buts, Lev. Stay here." Jack's tone was sharp, but he immediately regretted it when he saw the big tears rolling down Lev's face.

"Buf, Mom..." the little boy protested. He didn't finish the sentence.

"Mom's gone, Lev," Jack said dully, surprising himself at the detatchment of his tone. If only he could tell his brother how _numb _he felt, how hurt, like a pulled tooth how it ached like an empty void...When his brother started to tear up again, Jack began slowly, unsure if his brother would be old enough to fully understand. "Lev, remember your tooth a few weeks ago?"

His brother nodded ferverently, playing with the gap in his baby-faced half-smile.

"Remember how it hurt when I helped you pull it out?"

Lev nodded again. "'Fill hurf," he lisped.

"That's how I feel, right here," Jack placed one hand over his heart, and the other over his brother's. "About Mom." He didn't say that it felt like someone had ripped his guts out. His brother would only be traumatized further, and he'd sworn that he'd protect him. Sworn on the Three Card Monty when his brother wasn't looking.

"Dof yer heaf hurf, Jay?" asked Lev.

Jack nodded, his head _did_ hurt. It felt like the world was spinning. "You stay here, Lev," he whispered. Jack was hoping to sneak into the house, get his mother's picture, some clothes, something. He had the cards and the magic kit already in his backpack. Jack wasn't sure were they'd go, but he didn't care. He didn't want to answer questions. He liked his science teacher, but...his minds eye was picturing Mom, blonde curls like his with her green turtle sweater.

Thinking about her made him want to cry again, and as he snuck into the house, and snatched his mother's picture off her dresser, shoving it his backpack, voices stopped him in his tracks.

"Duuude, someone's in the bedroom."

"Probably one of the kids."

"How could anyone do that? Bury Mom in the backyard?"

"Beats me."

Jack bit his still-healing lip to keep from crying out in rage. The metallic taste filled his mouth. He couldn't jump out his mother's window, he'd break a leg in the fall. He'd hide in his room until they went in Mom's room, then he'd run, he decided.

He waited until he was sure they were in there, then he scurried down the hall, not bothering to close Mom's room door like he'd planned. Jack was just about to dart toward the back door, when...

"Goin' somewhere, son?" he faced a kindly-looking younger officer, probably a cadet.

Jack blinked. He threw his precious cargo against the officer, and ran for the door, screaming his brother's name. Another towering officer stood in front of him, a big, dark-skinned guy and he was _really _tall.

"Oh shit," Jack muttered.

"Oh shit is right," the officer glared.

"He's just a kid, Loeb."

"Oh yeah, Gordon? You're gonna have a bruise across your chest from that."

The younger officer shrugged. "Nah, its nuthin'." He didn't look mad at all, his hair was a little ruffled, and he looked a little tired, but not mad. Jack noticed, he somehow liked the guy. Just a tiny bit.

"Where's my brother?" Jack demanded, "Where's Lev."

"Why don't you show us," Loeb suggested. It wasn't a question.

"Lev?" Gordon didn't understand.

"Jay! Jay!" Lev banged against the back door with his little fists. Jack bolted past the officers, and ran to his brother, who was crying, big red splotches covering his face.

"We have to go...now.." he hissed, taking off with the little kid right on his heels, toward the road. The cop cars blocked their path, even to the neighbors. Jack saw his father's car, and the police, and the handcuffs.

"I'm never gonna tell you nuthin'! Those brats did it!"

"Dad!" Lev screamed, but Jack held him tightly. What was going to happen to both of them now?


	9. The Visitors

_**~Chapter Nine: The Visitors~**_

"Hey, Freak, you have someone."

"Oh?" Today was not a good day. The chicken casserole last night hadn't settled. And plus, he was in a very bad mood. For real this time. Sometimes he faked it just out of spite, but today was just a bad day. He was bored for one. What was he supposed to do? Build houses of cards all day, twiddle his thumbs? They just didn't get that he needed to make life interesting. Blow stuff up. He always was good at doing that. Destroying things.

Like...oh _hell _no, he wasn't like _him _at all. At least he didn't....well, yeah, maybe he did, but _still. _

"Oh, don't try your attitude with me," the guard began.

Joker just rolled his eyes. These people were so _stupid, _so dumb, so damn _self-centered. _Joker stood, just leering at the guard. He wasn't in a good mood today, but that didn't mean he was going to just drop the act. That damned casserole. The Joker reminded himself he'd always _hated _casserole. Of course, he didn't remember exactly why. He was bored. Bored crazy. Hopefully today, one of his henchmen would break him out. Or something. They'd said they'd come up with something, but they were so slow at just _doing _things at random. Everything just had to be planned, it was just so _stupid._

Jostled out of his cell and to the visiting area, the Joker was still quite more than just a little perturbed. The stupid phones, all the yelling. The smell. Not that Joker minded, he was rather used to it all. Just today it felt disgusting. Oh that's right. It all made sense. Today every year was the one bad day out of the year. The one day he wouldn't laugh. He didn't care if they thought he had bipolar disorder, _to hell _with all of them, that was if hell existed.

The smile crept up his face. He didn't have to play by the rules just because today was...oh, never mind. If hell really existed, he hoped that those two _bastards _were there. Better yet, if they were in the same cell together.

Joker didn't exactly believe that there was an afterlife. If there really was one, people wouldn't be such _damnable fools. _But who asks someone like him to explain theology? It just doesn't happen.

Joker didn't act surprised, just grinned at seeing his most recent man, Albuerto Solosti. The dark-skinned killer pursed his lips.

"It's done, boss."

"Good," Joker smiled, somewhat of a real smile - if it could be called real - at seeing the man that worked for him. Albuerto was one of those that had just about up and suggested trying to the Joker for ransom. And he liked his ideas. Albuerto was one of those strategists. It was all really part of the plan for him to come here, and when he winked at his boss the Joker knew that they'd come through for him.

Albuerto didn't know hardly any of the Joker's tale, and he didn't ask questions.

"Did you find anything?"

"She's gone, boss. They say..." The Joker lifted his finger almost to his lips, and Albuerto caught the message. The man took the hint and lowered his voice. "...she left the hospital yesterday. Nobody knows."

"Then she's on her way here," he mused.

"It's been five years, boss. You think -"

"I don't think, remember? I go with the tide."

"Right boss. Want us to wait for the tide to come in, or make a storm?" Joker knew what his henchman meant. And he didn't know how to answer exactly. He rarely made decisions based on what might happen. He didn't know what her reaction might be. She might be furious at him. Joker grinned to himself.

"Wait for the tide, then make a storm," he nodded.

Albuerto nodded. "You okay, boss?" he asked genuinely.

The Joker leered at him this time. He _hated _it when they asked those sort of questions. "Always, just peachy," he said, his voice hinged with sarcasm.

"Time's up!"

Joker rolled his eyes again. "Ahhh! Can you gimmee a minute?"

"No." the guard spoke as though talking to the Joker gave him a bad taste. No surprise, after that horrible tasting casserole. The chicken must have rotted in the cage before being cooked.

"Good to see you boss." Albuerto took the hint and left.

Joker had to admit, he liked the guy's ideas. Albuerto wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what he could and couldn't say about the _Plan. _And it was all going to turn out with perfection or just _mayhem_. Which was perfection.

"Don't take him back yet," the other watchman said with a sneer. "He's got another visitor, a lady."

Joker wouldn't tell you, and probably wouldn't even admit to himself that something jumped in his stomach. He blamed the casserole. _Her. _Brilliantly crazy her...finally come back.

"Siddown!" the guard shoved him in his chair.

"'Scuse me," she said, her stubborn tone rising. She flashed her credentintials. Falsified, probably, but still. She'd had the training. Joker grinned. The old Harley was back. "I want a room to talk to him please. It's important." Her flashing dark eyes spoke of no-nonsense, and a dangerous passion.

"Fine." The guard really didn't give a _fuck _what she did with him. Just as long as the Freak was well restrained. "Get her a room."

The others muttered with begrudging, but she just _glared, _eyes flashing. Like always, they betrayed her. Well, not to just anyone. The Joker always knew what she was thinking. She was mad at herself most of all. Stupid _bitch _had tried to reform, redo her ways. Not going to happen. He'd driven her crazy. He grinned as they took him away, straight-jacket and all.

He knew she had some kind of feelings for him. Whatever it was, he really didn't care. Feelings betrayed you, got you in trouble, sometimes even got you killed. He hadn't killed her yet, he admired her kick-ass personality too much. Of course, he'd never tell her that, but whatever.

They didn't just get that it was all a very sick joke. Speaking of which, he could still taste that disgusting casserole....


	10. Requiem for My Shattered Dreams

_**~Chapter Ten: Requiem for Shattered Dreams~**_

Jack sat in one room. Lev was in the other. It felt like interrogation. It was after all, a police station. At least, the little that Jack had seen on the TV at school.

Gordon sighed wearily. "How'd the knife get in your backpack?" he asked. His patience was wearing thin, but he fought to keep his voice even.

Jack shrugged. "It's mine," he said licking his lips nervously, tangled blonde curls hanging almost his eyes. The boy badly needed a haircut, but he didn't mind it, it made him feel wild, and free, even though he really wasn't.

"Then how..."

He bit his lip, again tasting the blood. "I don't want to die..."He wouldn't say anything else. An officer whispered in Gordon's ear. Gordon turned to Jack.

"You're brother said that it was your father. Who killed your mother. And with your knife. Is that true?"

Jack nodded wordlessly. His brother was a brave little soldier, but then, he didn't understand death, loss, that horrible, achy pain that just won't go away no matter what you did. His brother didn't know that one or both of them were now practically dead.

"Because of the sensitive information, and considering your living conditions at the moment, we're going to have to place you in state custody."

"We didn't _do _anything," Jack insisted, eyes flashing. "We just buried her."

"No son, you're going to a place they're going to take care of you."

"I'm not your son," he said, surprising Gordon with his nine-year-old spunk. "And what about Lev? What's he gonna do without me?"

"They always try to keep children together," said another voice. Another guy. Just great. "I'm sorry..."

That's when it slowly dawned on him. He'd lost his mother, his home, and finally his brother. "No!" he glares at the caseworker. "He'll _die _without me!"

"Don't you think you're overreacting. Officer Brown will take good care of your brother."

"His name. Is Levi." Jack hated them, with every drop of blood left in him. He _hated _them, just hated them. He _wished _to God that he was still with his father, a somewhat awkward, yet strangely almost normal, life. "Can I see him?" he asks, glaring at them, wishing his eyes could just slice them to ribbons.

The caseworker hesitates. "It's _fine," _Gordon says, looking no more happy with the situation, and looking suddenly weary.

"Can I have my stuff back?" he demanded next.

"Sorry son, it's evidence." They had to keep that knife, he got that part.

"My mother's cards. And her picture. That's not evidence."

"I suppose not." Gordon nods to give the kid his backpack. What the hell?

"What the --- what'd you do to my backpack?"

"We had to, uh, rip out the seams to, uh..."

"Oh, you think I'm a nine-year-old drug runner?" He flares. "You people are stupid."

He shoulders the pack, and goes to see his brother. He doesn't get the cadet. Three days ago, Gordon was okay, now he acts like he's on edge, ready for anyone to spring. Some rich couple had died, he'd heard. So, fine. He could take care of himself, just fine. He didn't need them.

Jack gave his brother _The Lady, _and with a little reluctance, his mother's picture. Besides, Jack looked at her. She said he had her eyes. So he'd see her when he looked in the mirror. Lev looked a little too much like his father. Jack kept the rest of his mother's Deck, minus the _Empress_, to remind him of her.

"I don't want you to go, Jay," his brother pleaded. New adoptive parents smiled and waved at him across the glass, holding a brand new stuffed dog. Jack wondered if his father had burned it.

"Don't forget, Mom, Lev. Promise me." He ruffled his brother's hair absentmindedly, trying not to cry. "Be strong, Lev. Mom made us promise." His brother nodded tearfully, then went with the officer to greet his new family. Jack stared at his foster parents with his flashing, gold brown eyes. He wasn't going to forget his mother, by the _Lady._

For over 6 months, Jack stayed in the foster home, the food didn't taste great, and he _hated _Fridays. Not the less that it was the weekend, and he'd have nothing but chores for two days straight, but Friday was casserole night, and that meant casserole, casserole, casserole for the rest of the weekend.

Once he'd suggested his mom's lasagna recipe, which earned him no more than a black eye, extra chores, and no dinner for that weekend. Jack resorted to taking his frustrations out at school, wishing he had his lucky knife back. Jack succeeded in blowing up the chemistry lab, and getting called to the principal's office after writing a rather provocative piece against parental authority with some vulgar language, and then again for writing, _"I F--ing Hate CasseRole,"_ on the girl's bathroom wall.

Principal Cass thought it was a reference to him, and promptly sent Jack home. It wasn't for that, but the now ten-year-old actually thought it was funny. The next weekend, Jack was moved, mostly due to his foster parents' complaints about his poor grammar among other ridiculous things. And so it went, back and forth, from home to home, year in, year out, till finally Jack landed in a radically religious home near the coast. If Jack swore or talked out of turn, he could expect to be sent to his room with a piece of dried bread and a paper cup of water for dinner. Jack was finally fourteen, and sick of the shit, so one night, when he heard their car pull out of the driveway, he packed his things in his backpack, and took off.

Jack never saw Levi again.


	11. Lithium

_**~Chapter Eleven - Lithium~**_

She breathes deeply before entering his cell. She's made the doctor swear he won't say a word that he brought her down here. He deliberately looks up when she enters the room, and for the briefest of seconds, makes eye contact. Before he blinks, and his expression lights up - sort of.

She thinks immediately of the time he thought she was "Jenny" and how horribly careful he'd been, almost to the point of unnerving her. So very out of character for him to ask, "I'm not hurting you, am I?" in the middle of everything. She knows there's part of him that isn't completely dead, as much as he'd like it to be.

He thinks of her succumbing readily to his fingertips, her pale, creamy white skin accented by her dark red hair. He knows his blood's racing, almost like a vampire when it sees its prey. He remembers her laughter applying his makeup and when he would deliberately smear it across her cheek, and just how hot she made his blood run.

She thinks it's rather odd that sex is his therapy, but to each their own right? Even if their habits aren't all that tasteful. She accepts it, its part of who he is, she isn't going to change it.

He's sort of pissed she ran out on him, but in that briefest of seconds when he meets her eyes, he realizes that its probably been almost five years for her, too, and that thought alone, and it rushes all over again. He knows he's turning a rather light pink in his face, but he'll blame it on the heat. He realizes she hasn't cheated. And maybe, for just the briefest of tiny moments, he feels just the warmth of her breath on his cheek.

She is still his. She is still all his. And he grins triumphantly at his trophy. She's learned well. She's got bad, bad reasons for returning, but he doesn't care.

"You're back," he says deliberately, his eyes choosing to twinkle.

"Whaddya want, Mistah J?" she says in her old voice, shoving him a plastic Jell-O cup and a biodegradable spoon. "Take of the damned straight-jacket," she says to the guard. He ain't gonna do nothin'."

Joker leers at her, his expression saying louder than words ever could, _how do you know I won't?_

She opens her own lemon-flavor pudding, and licks off the foil top, never taking her eyes off him, as though to say, _I don't. You won't do anything, cause I'm yours, I am all yours. _

The guard reluctantly lets him out of the straight jacket. Joker resists his urge to rub his sore shoulder, and simply relaxes.

"Now ya leave," she says stubbornly, continuing to spoon pudding into her mouth. "Scram, beat it."

She was spoiling her ruby red lips by doing that, but he'd smear the makeup anyway. Might as well taste a little. He grins. She always is sexiest when she's pissed.

The guard leaves, and she pulls out her cell phone. Joker watches the camera's go black. His grin grows wider as he opens his own chocolate cake. She always did know his favorites. "Haven't forgotten," he mumbles with pleasure.

"Never," she says thinking of the person he used to be.

"Knew you'd do it," he said.

"Do what?" she asks innocently, getting out of her chair to rub his aching shoulder. How she knows where it hurts, he doesn't bother to ask. God, though, she's a brilliant bitch.

"Come for me," if she caught his innuendo, she didn't say anything. "Oooh, Harley..." Oh God just the shoulder rubbing brought back so many good, delicious things.

"Glad you're happy to see me," she says, keeping her tone even.

"What?" he asks, feigning innocence, remembering right then he'd threaten to kill her if she came back, well that was before he found out the street people aren't too fond of his face. So, nah, he hadn't really meant it, just wanted to scare the hell out of her. Like usual. But she didn't need to know he'd missed her.

"That about me returnin', Jacks, You said..."

"And I still might," he growls. Doesn't she know better by now?

"Then you do remember, Puddin'!" She kisses him lightly on the forehead. He wants more of that, wants to know if lemon and chocolate mix, and considering them two, it would probably make a not-so-bad combination.

"Harley, come on," he coaxes. He reaches up to pull her down to his mouth, duly noting she doesn't fight. They kiss, tangling tongues with each other, exchanging lemon and chocolate flavors. She sits in his lap, not caring she's in front of two way mirror. They can gape all they want to. And Dr. Cunningam can go insanely jealous. "They're watchin' us Puddin'." She whispers as she nibbles on his ear. "They're never gonna..." But he does what he does best, only stops her by kissing again. The lighted room goes completely dark. "What's goin' on Jacks?" she asks, pulling out of the kiss.

"Shh...to old times.." he grins in the inky darkness as Albuerto opens the door, not looking a bit surprised to see her there. "And. Right. On. Schedule." he turns back to her. "You choose. You coming, or not?"

Dr Cunningam would think the worst of her. Can always have another Harliquin. Damn. "You know always, Mista J," she says, though the words ring hollow in her ears. She loves him, and he's destroying himself, letting the world burn with it.

She aches with desire. Can she pretend again? Every little bit? She wants Jacks to love her for her, but it just isn't possible. The Joker can't love Harliquin just as much as the tattoo on her shoulder proves it. She takes her old Harliquin mask from the henchmen and gets into the vehicle. Mista J plays the cards, lets her place his bets…


	12. Chasing Cars

**Chapter Twelve: Chasing Cars**

Jack hitchhiked from Lake Eerie to Gotham City, vowing to avenge his mother's death. He didn't know if his brother was alive, or dead. He'd probably never know. Lev had disappeared along with _the Lady._ It took several months to cross the country. Jack hitchhiked, sometimes he walked in the pouring rain, and the highway was empty. Sometimes no one stopped for hours, sometimes days.

"Where you headed for, son?" The truck drivers would ask, and Jack would bite his tongue from the smart remarks that would come up, yet he would only say:

"Going to Gotham - - see the family." The lies and half-truths came easily to him now, and sometimes even he believed them. And oh, by God, he would see the_ family, _he'd kill that _bastard _that destroyed his life, destroyed his brother...but of course, Jack wouldn't say anything. Foster care had taught him to put on an act to save a punch to the face. It didn't always turn out as it should have.

When Jack finally arrived in Gotham City one night, the streets were cold, the city bathed in a heavy mist. Jack wandered down the alley called _The Narrows._ He was tired, hungry, and he desperately needed a shower and a haircut. Noting the "homeless shelter" on the street, he reluctantly walked in. There were mainly older men, sleeping on the floor, on beds, on tables. The floor wasn't clean, but it wasn't exactly dirty either.

"Just arrived in town, son?"

_Damn, was he really that short that everyone just had to be a damned father to him? _He only nodded, biting his lip. The scar from that night still remained, giving Jack the appearance of a split lip. He glared darkly at the guy in charge, his gold-brown eyes almost black in their stare at the man. Jack was analyzing his character, he meant to scare the guy.

"Want a shower? Change of clothes?" He didn't approach Jack, or bother to touch him. Of course he was used to that. The years in foster care had made him flinch at human touch. And plus, Jack knew all too well, that the shirt underneath the filthy jacket was in shreds. He nodded again.

The hot shower was nice, and Jack turned it almost to scalding hot, letting it wash the grime from the road, and he thought, almost wryly, his family name. The hot water was one of those welcome things that he'd nearly forgotten its existence. He inhaled the steam, letting it clear his lungs, wash the smell of the gasoline, and the asphalt. He wasn't a Marone, not really. Someone's knock at the door made him jump.

"Dinner is in ten." He'd forgotten he hadn't eaten since yesterday morning, even though Michigan City's Denny's wasn't his favorite, still food was food, he'd learned in the last four years.

He hoped it wouldn't be casserole. He dried off with the rough towel, and buttoned up his shirt and pants. They were rumpled, second-hand-me-down clothes. The sweatshirt had a red stain on the front, like dried blood.

It didn't help that the dinner was mostly lasagna. It brought back all the memories of his mother's delicious recipe. It had been too long, and Jack was too young to remember just what she put in it. He only picked at it, and gave the rest to one of the stray mutts that hung around the place.

The dog was a dirty gray with black patches. He had fleas, but Jack didn't care. He ruffled the dog's fur. He'd wanted a dog since -- Jack stopped himself, that life was gone now, he was a vigilante, a fugitive from justice, running from the law. And he was only fourteen. He wished he had his knife. He didn't even have any kind of weapon to kill that man. Jack didn't think of _the bastard _as his father, just a nameless, faceless being that needed death to avenge his mother.

_The Lady cried to the Fool in his euphoria. "Avenge me, O Fool, lest my blood stain your own world. Protect yourself my love, and only avenge me."_

Jack absently petted the stray. He didn't know why he felt like kicking the animal, he wanted to be alone. The dog yelped, and scurried away, confused by the boy's actions. Jack didn't understand himself sometimes. They'd said in counseling that he probably had PTSD (whatever that stood for, Jack didn't remember).

Jack wondered as the Italian with the graying hair entered the building. In order to defeat your enemies you sometimes had to join them, Jack had learned that much in history class. Even though he'd done it over and over in his mind, Jack finally decided once and for all, that he was going to kill that _Traitor _that had killed his mother, that had stolen his life. The Beast, the Monster of his nightmares.

Jack decided. He'd speak to the Italian. Infiltrate just enough to get a weapon, then cut loose. He'd go on a shoplifting spree. Party afterwards, celebrate, as the Fool should, to reenter his euphoria.

The damned system had it in for him, that was all there was to it.


	13. A Work of Art

**Chapter Thirteen – A Work of Art**

_**("So Close" by Awkward Theory)**_

She wishes that she isn't the one to remember. It isn't really fair. As she brushes her hair and stares at the dark circles under her eyes and the bruise across her cheek, she realizes it could be completely worse. At least tonight, she was crossing her fingers that he'd be gentler than one of their final times…

_Skin sliding roughly against skin, scars catching as they fought with each other in a locked embrace. Sweat dripping, mingling with blood, mixing something that was both beautiful and revolting at once. The stench of passion hung in the air, like the corpses of rotting flowers, all over Gotham, all theirs, all-_

_He pulled her hair roughly enough to crack her neck up and back and she gritted the knife between her teeth. Gently he grasped the handle and traces the tip of the blade along the corner of her lips, her cheek, her neck, her shoulder. All the way between two shoulder blades. That's when he leaned so close to her ear, hot breath hitting her cheek._

"_My canvas, my work of art."_

_She didn't as much as scream as he carved an ornamental J in her back. She only whimpered when his tongue lapped up the blood and drove the tip into a particularly wide gash._

She stares at her dull blue eyes looking back in the mirror. No wonder she hadn't returned in five years. She looks at the birth control pills in her hand and quickly pops them into her mouth. She dreads what would happen…if….oh no, she knows she is screwed up, and nothing, _nothing, _can change that, but as she swears to a sky that is endless, she's _not _going to replicate him, not going to call the world's doom by bringing it to pass. She'd rather die first.

As she removes her jester costume, and runs the hot water for her evening shower, she wonders. When does "Jenny" have to show up again? She felt like she was always putting on a multi-faceted act. It wasn't like he was bipolar, it was more like disorientation, she decided, thinking of the night that she was unnerved by his almost-gentleness, near to fear. He acted almost surprised to see her, almost unfamiliarity with her distinct accent, as though he expects someone else. She worries that somehow the two characters will combine, and he'll kill her for not being who he thinks she is, whether its Jenny or Harley, she doesn't want to know.

And she shocks herself. Considering the hopeless existence that she has, she should welcome death. But she realizes at she steps in the shower, and lets the hot water run over the ugly scar on her back, and the Jester carved into her arm, she realizes that he doesn't want his "possession" broken; he'd wrack worse havoc on the city. That's when she realizes that her existence depends on part of his good side – that is, if he even _has _a good side.

What he vents on her, he won't vent on the city. Tears mingle with the hot, soapy water, and yet she stays on alert. At anytime, he can just burst in, interrupt the shower, and demand anything from her.

She knows better than to lock the door. She wonders if "Jenny" is a wife, a girlfriend, someone he's already had and thrown away like a discarded toy. She's pretty sure it's his wife, but with Mista J, you never knew. It wasn't exactly like pathological lying, but more of a made up tale. And she wishes she could ask, but it's not going to happen.

When he said he sometimes remembered it one way, sometimes another, for once, he was telling the truth. A multiple choice past made it easier for everyone.

He didn't remember, didn't need to feel the pain. And no one would pity him. He doesn't want pity, he just wants to see it all burn. He's a time bomb waiting to blow, and he'd rather see his world of Gotham City blow up in flames than just let himself go.

She's surprised he doesn't intrude, so she hurriedly slips into her nightie, brushes her teeth, and duly notes that he's just lying in bed, eyes open, just staring into nothingness. She considers offering, instead of waiting for him to demand, but takes the thought back when she sees the look on his face. He's concentrating, thinking, and if she wants that bruise to heal, and not get a bloody nose, she won't ask questions.

She crawls into her side of the bed wordlessly, knowing he'll see that scar, and she hopes, that just tonight, he'll leave off the knife.

"Come here, Harley," and as though she has a choice, he pulls her close. His breath sounds incredibly loud in her ear. She knows he's going to demand it now, and she's ready. She's completely exhausted from the plane ride, and she's got jet lag like no other. It'd be almost 8 in the morning in Seattle now…but it doesn't matter. He needs her. Only her.

Just Harley.


	14. Caught Between Judgement and Justice

**Chapter Fourteen –Caught between Judgment and Justice **

Jack worked as a courier for the Mob for several months before he finally got his own gun. And it wasn't hard to find where his father lived. Jack stood outside the door, wondering for just a moment if he should knock on the door, and surprise the bastard, or if he should just walk in the door, and do it in cold blood. He'd seen it in his mind during those months, the long months waiting for revenge. Final revenge, final justice.

He heard his father – singing? _"Some people call me the space cowboy…yah..some call me the gansta of love…"_

Jack couldn't take it anymore. The damn song reminded him of the _Fool, _and his father was _not _singing his song. Jack touched the doorknob. It opened by itself with an eerie creak, almost as if the ghost of his mother, begged him to come in, begging to avenge her death. He concealed the gun behind his back.

He didn't know why his hands were shaking. He shouldn't be afraid of his father. He hadn't seen him in almost four years. He'd grown taller, his blonde hair was now coming in darker, yet still so much like his mother's. He watched, unnoticed, as he father sat on the easy chair and flicked on the television. He was soon sound asleep, snoring.

Jack bit his lip, remembering the scar, remembering the blood on the kitchen floor, remembered Lev sobbing. Jack clicked the safety catch. His father awoke, and it was then he saw the pistol in his father's hands. And on the lamp stand, Jack's lucky knife.

_Damn that man. Damn him. Monster. Killer. Destroyer of worlds. _

"Who's there?" he asked, his voice cold, and slurred.

Jack couldn't take another second in this house. "It's me," he said, and he aimed the pistol right for his father's heart.

"Jackie?"

"Shut up!" Jack didn't know why the fresh tears sprang into his eyes just then.

"Look, son, please, look, I was wrong okay? Come on, have a drink."

Flaming rage took over Jack's mind. He fired, not looking where he aimed the gun. His father reeled back, wounded by the injury to his shoulder.

"Son, please, I'm sorry about…"

"You're NOT sorry!" Jack was furious, and nothing was going to stop him. A menacing grin drove up his face. "But you're gonna be. You're gonna wish you were never born. Then, you'll be sorry."

Jack felt just a slight pang at the fear in his father's eyes, but also satisfaction. Because of him, Jack had lost Levi. Who knew where the boy was, and if his brother was even alive.

"Son, I was drunk, I…"

"You're drunk now!" Jack fired again, forgetting he needed to reload. He grabbed his lucky knife on the dresser. He considered, for just momentarily, of just leaving the man to bleed to death. But that would be to easy.

"At least reload the pistol," his father retorted. "Your mom did raise retards."

Jack glared at his father. "You're gonna wish I cut out yer lying tongue." Jack flipped open the switchblade, nicking his thumb in the process. He ignored the blood trickling down his hand as he raised his lucky knife.

He grinned again. "Today you just got lucky."

Jack stabbed his father, releasing rage that had built up for little less than ten years. And again. And again. He stopped, breathless, panting.

Blood was spattered on his face, his hands, his clothes. Jack felt suddenly numb, only it didn't hurt as badly as it had with Mom. It just felt dull, it didn't really hurt, he told himself.

He washed his hands and his knife in the kitchen sink. He thought of his mother. Finally, her blood was avenged.

But he didn't feel any better. He felt like he had hitchhiking to Gotham: dirty, and alone. He didn't want to know where Lev was. It would hurt too much if he was dead. Jack saw the matches by the sink.

He lit one, staring at the fire. He dropped the match to the floor, and jumped in surprise when it rapidly spread.

Jack realized he had to get out of there. Fast. If they found him, then he'd really be dead. They said if you ran away from foster care you got put in lockup.

He didn't want to go to jail. Or whatever it was. He wanted to be alive, free. Rid himself of the pain that still throbbed in his heart.

But he didn't feel better. He felt worse.


	15. Diamond

**Chapter Fifteen –Diamond**

_**(Harley and Joker by Miss Egypt)**_

_A diamond in the rough is easily bruised…_

As she hears him enter, the slamming of the door, quickly notifies her of his mood. She winces just slightly, knowing well that tonight isn't going to go well.

"I wanna play a game, Harl," he says, his makeup smeared, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, and split lips.

"Oh yeah, Mista J?" she asks, trying desperately to sound innocently calm, though she can feel her heart rate rapidly increasing. Whatever _game _this is, she can tell merely from the tone of his mood, she'd rather not play. "What sorta game, Puddin'?"

He leers, his ugly grin growing wider. "Rock, paper, scissors," he says. "Sit!" He points to the tiny dining room table.

She knows better than to disobey. She sits at the table as she should, dreading exactly what he'll say next. He gets his carefully sharpened scissors and lays them down on the table in front of her, humming some random circus tune.

Though her breathing is purely even, her heart is racing, fighting to leap out of her chest. He places her hands, palms down on the table. He sits in the table.

"Here's the game," he balls his fist. "Rock – one of these." He brushes his fist against her bruised nose. "Paper, nothing happens," he throws his hands theatrically in the air. She sighs, just slightly. "Scissors," he flips open his favorite knife, an amethyst handled switchblade. He tosses the blade between his hands with expertise. "I decide."

She breathes carefully, trying desperately not to reveal her fear. He holds his fist up, and gestures for her to do the same. "One….two…"

She panics as she realizes he purposely hasn't told the last rule –

"Three."

Who wins. She clenches her fist, her knuckles are white. He holds up two fingers, and his knife.

_Oh, f--_, she thinks as his grin spreads up his face.

"Again, one…"

He's not playing fair.

"Two."

But when does he _ever_ play fair?

"Three."

This time she holds up two fingers - - and his is a fist.

Panic seizes her leaping chest as his grin is wider, even more garish.

"So that's how it's gonna be, huh, Harl?" he asks in a lilting tone. He sneers. "How about a haircut?"

She glances down at the table only briefly as he picks up the scissors; she flinches just slightly as her long hair is undone from its pins and severed until it is just jaggedly cropped around her shoulders. Strand by strand, snip by snip. He hands her the mirror; she doesn't really look at herself as he leers at his own reflection, now pressing the amethyst blade against her neck. He is careful, yet not gentle as he carves a diamond into the side of her neck. He finishes, lapping up the blood. He then, almost gently, kisses her bruised cheek. She holds back the tears, as he murmurs into her ear, blowing his hot breath against her cheek.

"My diamond in the rough."


	16. Counting Stars

-1**~Chapter Sixteen: Counting Stars~**

_**(Jack Marone Juvenile Corrections of Metropolis mug photo)**_

Jack didn't feel anything after his father was dead. He didn't even care if they caught him, which they never did. In fact, the sloppiness of the Gotham PD was proven when his father's death was declared a suicide.

He technically had killed himself. He'd asked for it the day he killed Mom. Jack was triumphant to have his knife back. It just felt so horribly good to be able to handle the blade. Soon Jack had trained himself to open the knife without cutting himself. It seemed to work out pretty good.

After all, there was no one to really tell him what to do. Not anymore.

Jack finally realized he'd have to steal to eat something. He wasn't caught the first time, and ended up joining up a gang of kids from the Narrows. Considering his dirty clothes, and disheveled appearance, no one would really recognize him as the missing kid from the Upper Peninsula.

Jack finally realized that running with the gang made him feel alive. Causing disorder is what he seemed best at.

Until the night the police busted into the old dilapidated apartment.

Jack was a fugitive, and abruptly sent to a Montana delinquency location. Jack was tough, almost unbreakable. Though he was forced to go to counseling, Jack clammed up, even caused fires, and other vandalism.

Two months into his time served, Jack sulked, huddled in a corner and shuffled his incomplete card deck. He watched out of the corner of his eye, as two boys flirted with each other, one acting like a girl. Jack was disgusted. Who did that anymore? He'd heard about it, yes, but he hadn't actually seen it.

"Hey," one of the guards nudged him with his foot. "You can't sit here."  
Jack looked up and glared. "I can if I want. You can't make me move."

"I don't like your attitude."

"Well, I don't like your shoes." Jack's face twitched slightly as if he might smile, but his eyes were still glaring.

The guard grabbed him by the arm, and picked him off the floor but this time Jack didn't flinch. His eyes were still angry.

"Well, I don't like your face." The guard shot back. Jack lifted his fist, and punched the snot in his face.

"I don't like your face either!" Jack retorted. The guard dropped Jack to the floor to clutch his bleeding nose.

He pushed the alarm button and shook his head at the young delinquent. Jack just smiled wryly as the other younger guards hauled him to his feet and cuffed him. Jack was put in solitary for that, but it wasn't the last time. He was often caught setting fires, and committing vandalism. He was known for his rebellion against authority, his loathing of those of an alternative sexual lifestyle, and his knack for picking locks.

He ended up in more lockup than anyone else. Yet his destiny seemed to lie in blowing stuff up. He felt a release of rage just by seeing things blow into a fireball.

They labeled him as having "a tendency toward destructive nature and destructive behavior". Labels meant almost nothing to him now. It was just an attempt by the system to fit him in a box, nothing more.

He wouldn't change. Nothing would cause that.

When he was finally free at 18, it wasn't because of good behavior, just because technically they couldn't legally _keep _him there any longer. What normally might have been a four-month sentence became four years, all due to his behavior in juvenile hall.

He decided to actually learn about blowing stuff up. He'd burned his hands a couple of times, and he'd rather not do that again.

So Jack hitchhiked once more, this time to the Washington Rigs, hoping to find a place where he could properly train himself in explosives.

Jack's pyro tendencies were drenched when he met Jenny.


	17. Gravity

**~ Chapter Seventeen: Gravity~**

_**(Jason Todd)**_

Harley stepped outside of the dilapidated hotel. They'd said it was a four-star establishment. But for Harley, it was difficult to imagine. She just needed air. She fought to hold back the tears that were streaming unbidden from her eyes, smearing the Harlequin makeup.

"Got a smoke?" The dark and familiar voice made her jump.

She squinted at the figure, bathed in shadows. "Todd?"

"Who else?" his voice hinged on sarcasm. "So, like I say, you got one?"

"I quit. Years ago." _Only five. _

"Ahum. But old habits are hard to break." He paused for effect. "Aren't they?" She didn't reply, just nodded; she knew he wasn't just talking about cigarettes. "Aren't they, Harley?"

"Yes," her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper.

"Is _he _here?"

She nods again. "Always Todd, you know that." He noticed her cropped hair, and the bandage across her neck. "Sleeping."

"He – does things. Doesn't he Harley?" he asks. She paused, before nodding again. "Tell him I'm coming for him."

She sourly blinks back the tears. "Just how'm I supposed to do that, Todd?" she asked facing him.

"You'll do it," he says, stepping into the light of the street. She notices the scar running down the left side of his face. It was jagged, almost like a lightning bolt.

"What happened, Todd?" she asked, gently touching the scar.

"He marks all his 'diamonds'", he said bitterly. "Left me for dead."

She pulled her hand back, repulsed. "He saw his chance to get at Bru- Batman, and he took it."

"Two players are better than one," she muttered. "So he _killed _you?"

"Tried," he laughed dryly. "It takes a lot more than his knife to hold me down."

"That isn't a scar from a knife, Todd," she corrected. "What did he do to you? I have a right to know." She catches his eye, begging him to tell. When he meets her eyes, he presses his lips together.

"You're not.."

"I know that, dammit, you think I don't regret it?" Tears sprang into her eyes.

"It's done now. And he – he is going to pay that debt he owes. Batman will, but Joker's first."

"Blood, Todd. Does that mean –"

"No, Harley, you don't pay what he owes. You weren't even here."

"Stop the clichés, Todd. You're going to kill him, aren't you?"

"He left me for dead. He has it coming to him. He should expect me."

"He thinks you're _dead,_ besides what if –" she looked up, trying to make him understand. But Jason Todd was gone. "What if he can be cured, Jay?" she asked the night.


	18. The Knight in Distress

-1**~Chapter Eighteen : The Knight in Distress~**

_** (Jack Mitchell, and his wife Jenny)**_

Jack hitchhiked once again. This time in the opposite direction. He found rides this time, and didn't have to walk as much. He found a job working the oil rigs, mainly in explosives.

Apparently the people out West are more courteous to strangers. In a rather creepy way.

Once, Jack had just rewired the dynamite to blow when he saw her. Jenny Williams.

Jenny was beautiful, with real platinum blond locks and rosy cheeks and lips. Jack didn't gape like everyone else did. Yet he watched her out of the corner of his eye.

He didn't want to show off. It didn't matter to him. But when he caught her staring _at him _was when the magic happened.

She smiled.

At a guy with a split lip and a bad haircut. And a dirty engineer's uniform. Jack and Jenny would disagree on who chose who.

Jenny's father was Nathaniel Williams, oil baron, rich. One daughter to carry on his legacy. Everything was pinned on Jenny.

Yet she didn't like wearing all her jewelry and showing off among everyone. She'd rather wear those dirty coveralls and hat and go in disguise.

Her father didn't like it one tiny bit, Jack observed. Once or twice he'd scolded his daughter for wandering among such rough people. For not being "grateful" of their family's luck.

Her response was shouting, so loud that Jack could clearly hear the words: "You'd have to go underground to find something that _isn't _owned by Wayne Enterprises."

Jack had found out over the years which case had been passed up for his. Bruce Wayne's. So what the kid's parents were dead? _He _had wealth, fortune, some kind of family to look after.

Someone the system couldn't fail, didn't dare.

Jack was just another face, just another case number.

Everyone thought _that _was normal.

"What's your name, stranger?" she asked with a light laugh.

Jack pursed his lip, self-conscious of his dirty face. "Jack. Napier." It was an alias he'd been using. He didn't know why it felt wrong to say it to her. He'd said it to others with no problem.

She nodded and moved on.

What sort of name was Napier? It was better than Marone. Too many misspellings, too many taunts in juvenile hall. _Moron. _His final connection to that bastard father of his was complete. And he was happy with the change.

He didn't want to know if his brother had done any of the same things. Maybe part of it was that he didn't care. But deep down, he didn't want his brother to be _him. _He didn't want to know if his brother was dead. He didn't want to ruin that image of the pure child with the dark curls.

It would ruin everything.

Jack kept to himself, he didn't like to talk to the rest of the workers. It made him feel obligated to tell his sob story. It wasn't a sob story to Jack. Nobody seemed to understand he thought his life was just a bad joke.

She was rich, and he wasn't. So why couldn't he just get her out of his head? She was just _so _gorgeous.

"Jack, what's been going on today? They say an accident happened up in the rigs."

He brushed the gunpowder dust on his work uniform. "Do you talk to all the guys?" he asked, squinting at the bright light.

"No," she laughed, light and musical. "Just asking questions so my father doesn't think I'm ignorant. I'm supposed to own this place someday, you know."

"Oh." Jack went back to rewiring the explosive. His nimble fingers were perfect for this job.

"So? What happened?"

"Wasn't my fault that a guy didn't clear out when I told them. He's fine, just a little banged up is all." He continued with his work. Why didn't she just go bother someone else? It wasn't like he knew everything about up there. It was just his job to rig the explosives.

Jack didn't see Jenny everyday. She just sometimes showed up on the spur of the moment. Though sometimes the boys whistled at her, it didn't seem to bother her.

Jack picked at his peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. He really wasn't hungry, even though it was lunch break. Jenny, like usual, came over to talk to him.

He didn't know why being around Jenny made him feel shy, nervous, and a little guilty. She was just so pure, so wonderful. He didn't deserve someone like her. It didn't make a lot of sense. She made him feel dizzy, like he'd been spun in a crazy turn.

"Jack, just wondered if you wanted to go to the circus fair later this week."

"I dunno," he shrugged as if he didn't care, but his heart leaped within his chest.

"Don't you have any fun, ever Jack?"

_Not really. _"The rigs need to be looked over," he mumbled. "They're quick to spring at anytime."

"You did them yourself. And I've seen you check those over. They'll be fine. Just come like the rest of the guys. There's no real cost to get in."

Jack didn't know why he started acting like Jenny's escort at the circus. He even paid for her ride on the Zipper. It was one crazy ride, and it surprised him that even a rich girl could have a strong stomache. It didn't make a lot of sense, but he felt himself falling for her.

"Oh Jack, look," Jenny squealed at the sight of Hailey's Flying Grayson's. Rather talented performers even Jack admitted it. He just would rather watch Jenny's reaction, her gorgeous smile, rather than the acrobats.

Jack never did like heights after all.

And she was the daughter of a oil baron. He was just one of the workers. It wasn't meant to be. They were born on opposite sides of the spectrum. She'd have to give up everything to be with him. He didn't like the thought of that.

He started taking night classes, trying to finish the school he never had in juvie. He didn't know why he hadn't the sudden urge to better himself. Well, sort of.

Jack was falling in love, falling for Jenny. They were destined to fail, one ending up being broken-hearted, the other confused and upset.

Maybe the stars would declare it otherwise.


	19. We Shouldn't Be Heroes

-1**~Chapter Nineteen: We Shouldn't Be Heroes~**

_**(Barbara Gordon/Oracle)**_

Harley went back inside the dilapidated hotel. Though it was run down and dirty, it was the most like home that she'd see for a long time.

Before she decided to run away again. Harl didn't have a problem with killing, just where there were kids involved is where she drew the line.

Too bad _he _didn't see that.

She felt her stomach growl. Crap. She'd forgotten to go grocery shopping. It could wait until tomorrow. If he could wait, so could she. He'd probably starve without her.

He didn't think about simple things. Just complicating life further.

"Mhmm, yes.." he murmured to himself as he poured over his desk.

Great. He was planning something again. Harley didn't want to know.

"I'm goin' to bed." He didn't look up. "Night." He didn't respond, and she didn't expect him to.

Harley lay on the lumpy mattress. It wasn't much, just enough for two to scrape by.

She remembered her apartment. Her old apartment. Before this crazy down spiral in mad love. Tears misted in her eyes. She'd given up everything.

She wasn't just crazy. She was stupid.

--

Joker concentrated on his plan, memorizing it to the last detail before tossing the paper in the fire.

He wasn't about to deal with copycats. Or Bats for that matter.

It crossed his mind briefly that Harley would disapprove, but since when did he care what she thought?

Since the five years they'd been together, she really had no idea what havoc he'd thrown into the city.

And Bats. Bats was now more of an annoyance than amusement. The Gordon thing? A fiasco. Jason? He wouldn't say it was a mistake, but a hand of cards played wrong. Too bad the kid had got the way.

If he didn't have such abhorrent tastes...Joker rubbed his eyes. Why was he thinking about them?

He didn't care.

Maybe Harl was right for once.

Maybe it was time for bed. He glanced at the clock that ticked on the molded walls.

12:30. AM. 12 hours until his next card play.

He might as well get some sleep.

---

The middle aged woman sat, rolling her wheelchair back and forth and running her fingers through her red hair in agitation.

_Him again. _

_  
_She punched in her four digit code and waited for the metallic ring on the other end of the line.

"1176 to 22-78. Up or down?" The man's voice on the other end was businesslike, yet on edge. _Is this bad or good?_

"Down mostly. Chess position." _This is bad, Dick. Really bad. _

"Random numbers, does not compute." _What's the situation?_

She would have smiled if the situation hadn't been so serious. "Code 4479U." _Our old enemy. What else would you expect?_

"Uh-huh, and 02S position on this chessboard?"

"02S in abnormal position of possible aggressive checkmate." _But you know he's always like this, Dick._

_"_4479-dash-02?"

"Affirmative."

"Checkmate. Sky's getting darker, signal battalion. Like old times." His voice dropped out of the technical code for a brief second.

She paused, putting her hands on her lap, absently rubbing her knee, even though she hadn't felt anything in her legs for what felt like years.

"4479-dash-02 situation critical." _It can only mean one thing, Dick. And you know it. _"To old times." _You know Jason's plotting revenge._

"Red?"

"Still transmitting you loud and clear, Wings. Knights meeting later. Code 113204. Oracle out."


	20. Shoot the Moon, Destroy the Universe

**~ Shoot the Moon, Destroy the Universe~ **

Jack nervously tapped his fingers on the wheel. He still hadn't done the job for McDougal yet, and he wasn't sure if he'd been put a hit on or not. Probably not yet.

It wasn't that he didn't want to break Douglas out, he wasn't exactly sure if this was the right thing to do anymore…the buzzing of his work phone shattered his thoughts.

"Officer Mitchell."

"Get out of the car. Nice and slow."

Jack did so, nervous that the voice on the other end sounded really mad. He chewed his lip nervously. "Okay."

"Now turn left down that alley. Someone will meet you there." The line went dead. Jack hoped they wouldn't kill him, but later in life, he might wish they had..

He noted with relief as he walked in the alley that he wasn't surrounded by mobsters.

"Give us your piece," ordered McDougal. Jack dropped it from his belt like he always did, before meeting with McDougal.

Jack was shocked when McDougal nodded and he was held up close to his face. "You haven't released Douglas yet," McDougal threatened.

"I – I don't make the calls on it." Jack realized that he probably hadn't been as terrified of another human before, ever. Except his father, and he'd rather not remember that.

Jack flinched when McDougal held up his switchblade for Jack to see. His eyes wided as the knife blade came closer.

"I promise I'll be quick. I like you, Mitchell, don't want to see you get hurt. Just gotta teach you a lesson," and with those words McDougal slashed his knife through Jack's cheek.

Jack reeled back, clutching his face, screaming in pain. He stumbled and fell onto the filthy sidewalk, still holding his cheek. Blood spilled between his fingertips as he tried to stop the flow.

"That was only a warning, Mitchell. Next time I won't be so endearing. You let my brother out now, yes?"

Jack nodded, in too much pain to speak.

McDougal tossed one of his henchmen a phone. "Call it in. Say he got shot in the face or something…"

"But-"

"You wouldn't want him to bleed to death before he let Mron out would you?" he asked, chuckling.

Jack fought to stay in and out of consciousness until the ambulance arrived, but their voices faded rapidly, and everything went a deathly black…

Jack did eventually recover from the original shock, but the ordeal left a very noticible scar across his left cheek, and it appeared that he'd been shot in the face.

Jack was decorated for his bravery, but he never thought he deserved the medal. He was in the honor guard before being called up in the reserves, but he winced as he fired the 21-gun salute, something he would leer at his inginuity years later.

Jack's unit was called up, just bare weeks after his son's third birthday.

He always did like those atrociously fancy suits. The uniqueness of being eccentric. He didn't like just "fitting in" even though he could follow orders. Even though Ops would eerily remind sometimes of a past he wished he could forget, at least now, he could think of a future. with Jeanne, Jack Jr. and their baby that was soon to arrive. He expected to get a letter before recon, but it never came. He'd been given a gift, a second chance, a chance at love, at hope, at life. He smelled the last letter she'd written in her careful and yet loving hand. Little Jack had just written crooked hearts and "Dad" across the bottom in a shaky hand. He smiled the corners of his mouth spread through his melting dimples, right up through his gold-brown eyes, shining with happiness despite the dim battery light.

"Letter from home, soldier?" asked a voice, Jon, a man from his unit, mending his uniform.

Jake didn't say anything - just grinned and nodded. The solitude was nice. He liked being the quiet one, that didn't talk much, but planned missions with skill.

"Yah, yah..." mumbled Caloni, the old Russian who'd joined them. He wasn't really in command, but he was smart, and seemed to be the only one Jake felt fine talking to. "He gets letter from _missus,_ Capitan do. Son, he sign."

The poor English made Jake's lips twitch. He suddenly missed home, _missed her, her smell, her hair..._

And his son, named after him. Jeanne was probably the only one still alive who knew the truth about him, except the doctor he'd paid to keep quiet. And no one else could ever know, not even Jack Jr.

The others were dead, even his former name, Jack Napier, was dead, as per the death certificate. He didn't know why he had to be so afraid of _dying_, because his only reason for _living _was _them_.

The Russian nodded, and rolled over to sleep. He was snoring within minutes.

Even after lights out, Jake lay awake.

It would be sometime in the early afternoon back in Fort Bragg, and she would be picking Jack Jr. up from preschool. He smiled in the darkness, holding the letter close to his heart. Someday soon he'd return to them., survive his mission, wounded or not, to live to come home, to be the _father _that his never was. He would _not _go crazy from this, no matter what it did to him, no matter how much it hurt, no matter what the enemy might do to him.

He'd been trained to survive torture, he knew just how to protect his unit, how to lie, just the damn headaches from the desert medicine had to stop. He didn't like what it was he was taking, it made him feel sluggish, and maybe even arrogant. Someone _different. _

The pills. His father. Brother. His father was dead. The bastard. But his only brother. Where was he? He'd forgotten that he had to find him, just had put it off for so long in fear of his own life. He vowed to find Levi, complete his family.

_He wouldn't die here. Not ever. _


	21. Red vs Red

**Red vs. Red**

Harley approached the alley cautiously. Of this one thing she'd been trained so well it was ingrained in her psyche. She head the punches. Gloved fists hitting bruised flesh.

The lack of laughter could mean only one thing, and one thing only: Jason was carrying out his threat. He was still just a kid in Harley's mind, she'd forgotten how grown up he was now. So bent on revenge.

"Todd!" her pleading tone cause him to drop the subject to the curb. Almost.

"You're just in time for the finale Harley," Jason said bitterly. Joker's blood was spattered on his gloves, his face.

"That's exactly what _he _wants you to do, Todd. He _wants _you to kill him." Harley tried to reason.

"I know all about that twisted death wish of his, Harley. Tonight, he'll finally get his wish." Jason paused. "And he'd expect this," he gestured to her dropped groceries and terrified face. "He'd expect you to save him. Or die trying."

Harley was silent. Jason Todd was right. As usual.

"This city, me, you –we're going to be free of this…monster," Jason spat out the words.

"He's human, Todd," she began. The psychiatrist, the negotiator, had returned.

Jason held Joker by his hair. Seeing those greenish-black eyes, the makeup smeared with blood, and the scarred face devoid of emotion, made Harley wince. "This monster, human?" Jason's laugh was dry, sarcastic. Strange as it sounds, it was familiarly grating to Harley's ears.

"You don't know him like _I _do." Her eyes flashed. "I _am _sorry, Todd. _I am. _If I hadn't left, he might've not crippled Barbara Gordon, or tried to kill you…"

"He would have done that with you here or not," Jason replied flatly.

"You _don't _know that, Todd. Though you're probably right," she conceded. You don't know _who _he _was _Todd. He wasn't all that different than you. "

"How would you know?" Jason curled his lip in disbelief.

"It's betrayal," she said, seeing his empty gaze. Joker wasn't really listening. Wasn't paying attention. _Didn't care. _She turned away from Jason. "He _doesn't_ remember."

"Have you forgotten, Harley?" Jason asked with fury. "He's an actor – a murderer. He's got you eating right out of his –"

"I don't justify what he does anymore, Todd."

"I don't believe you. You know I don't. I don't want to hurt you, but if I have to, I will _kill_ you."


	22. Etched in Time, Blotted in Memory

**~Etched in Time, Blotted in Memory~**

You want to know why Jack tells all those stories? The truth of it is, he doesn't want to remember how those scars came to be on his face. It's just too painful.

Jack woke up in darkness.

"J- Ja.." A weakened voice of his comrade alerted him.

"Marne?" he whispered, trying to tell the voice's location.

"Mit-Mitch…"

"You okay?"

The groan of pain was enough response. Jack couldn't see a damned thing, but he could hear his comrade's weakening voice.

"Alright, getup!" the choppy accent was rough and poor English.

Jack obeyed. The training had taught him that you don't let on what it is you're thinking. Which was just fine with him. Only she knew…he just pictured her face, her voice, blotted her name from his memories quickly before they would find her…that's when he realized he had to fight to stay alive. He had a son, a wife, someone that _needed _him, that would _die _without him.

They shoved him in a chair, and strapped him down roughly. He blinked as the lights flashed in his eyes, He couldn't see his captors. But he saw the needle. He flinched just slightly, he'd always hated the damned things.

He fought to stay awake, but no man can fight what they'd given him. Jack went into a stupor, followed by severe convulsions, and he could still hear their voices, but he couldn't see anything except the searing white light.

"Where the rest of you unit, yes?" one of them demanded.

Jack felt the froth forming within his mouth. He shook his head violently, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. Terror seized his mind as he realized he couldn't speak. They'd given him some sort of brutal interrogation serum. Jack gasped for air, fighting to keep his lungs expanded, and his heart still beating.

"Tell us! You no die!"

Jack still shook his head, rapidly losing strength, yet still stubborn. Even if he could talk, he wasn't going to talk.

The beautiful girl smiled at him, just before he drifted into unconsciousness. Cold water shocked him back to reality, and another shot of the pain-inducing toxin. Jack struggled, fighting not to scream. That was what they wanted.

They wanted him in pain.

But he wouldn't die for nothing, even though he had to stay alive if only for her.

He started to let the darkness close in, but the toxin burned through his bloodstream and the cold shocked him.

"You will talk," said another voice. Darker. Cruel. "Prep him for the electro…"

Jack screamed when the electrical current pulsed through his weary body.

"Tell us!" one of them demanded.

"I..don't…know….anything," Jack managed through gritted teeth despite the pain. He glared darkly at the guards, before again fading into unconsciousness.

Several methods were tried, including sleep depravation, but Jack stood by his story that he didn't know anything.

And he assumed his unit had moved on and had already declared him and his comrades missing in action. Marne's body was carried out the second week, and O'Donnell two weeks after.

But Jack had survived worse than this. It really wasn't true, but he told himself that to cope. The drugs were the worse effect on his system, he would keep waking up and calling for "Williams" of which his torturers thought was entertaining. What they didn't know, was Jack was screaming for his wife.

He soon lost track of the time he'd spent in hell, but what he didn't realize was, it wasn't exactly over yet.

"Fine American. You no talk, yes? Fine. We then open you mouth." Jack's eyes widened in terror. He shook his head again, but the monsters held him so he couldn't move, and their leader fitted his blade into Jack's mouth.

The scarred side.

"Someone do this to you already, yes?" Jack didn't reply. He didn't dare with the sharp blade in his mouth. "You still no talk, no?" But instead of waiting for him to answer, the Korean pressed the blade against the corner of Jack's mouth.

"You talk?" he asked, pressing the blade against his cheek.

Jack tasted blood. He figured that he knew what torture they were going to put him through, but he just couldn't make himself tell where the unit's last location was.

The unit had never failed him, therefore he would never fail them either. He'd fight to stay alive, but if he did end up dying…he didn't want to think about that.

The motion was slow, purposeful, as white-hot pain shot through his head. Jack screamed in pain as the blade sliced up his cheek. He thought his head would explode the pain was so bad. Carefully, the Korean sliced his mouth open, almost up to his ear.

He grinned at Jack. "Look at this American. He smile…"

Jack screamed again when the old scar was reopened. He felt the electric paddles against his reeling head as they handed him sutures and a needle.

"You stitch yourself. Then you tell us," their leader said, holding up a mirror to his face and the electric paddles almost too close to his face.

Jack stared at his reflection. He did look like his head had exploded. Blood spilled out of his mouth, and across his prisoners uniform, trickling to the floor as he struggled with the second wound. It wouldn't take as long, wouldn't be as painful.

His hands shook with shock as he closed the wound. He winced as he pulled the needle through his torn flesh.

He hadn't exactly liked it when they'd done him up in Emergency, but this. This was worse hell. Jack knew better than to ask for a shot of Novocaine, though he desperately wished for it. Jack tried to hold back the tears from streaming down his bloody cheeks, more afraid of showing his cowardice than the salty pain, yet the tears came anyway, stinging the wounds.

Jack wasn't sure how he'd cut the thread, until they handed him a knife, yet he heard the click of the safety as one of them held a Magnum up to his temple.

"You do not try anything, unless you want to clean up your brains."

They laughed at that one, Jack ignored the remark and nodded, severed the thread, making a small cut on his thumb in the process. He continued with the other side, trying to stay awake through the shock and blood loss. He almost nodded off, but the fizzling of the electrical current waiting for him to surrender kept him awake. He didn't have a choice.

Jack soon had numbed himself to the pain of the needle, entering and exiting out of his cheek. The stitches were slightly crooked, but that was just because his hands wouldn't stop shaking.

He didn't even feel the pain anymore, just the bitter metallic taste of blood was all in his mouth. He finished the last stitch up by his ear, and motioned for the knife.

They didn't hand it to him.  
"You tell." Jack didn't hear the words, just let the needle fall, still hanging from where he'd been working to repair his destroyed face.

The pain shocked him when their leader pulled on the tightened thread.

"Pyonang," he managed to slur out of his mouth, knowing how badly he'd mispronounced the capital of South Korea. Blood dribbled from his lips.

"No!" the leader said angrily. "You here! They here! Now where the rest of them!"

Jack coughed from the blood running down his throat. His head lolled back. He didn't dare spit, but he was going to be sick.

"I…I…do…don't kn-know," he managed weakly. He didn't. Not for sure.

The leader stared at him, his lip curled in scorn.

"Shock him."

Jack screamed as once again the electrical charges coursed through his system.

--

When they were tired, they threw him back in his dirty cell. Jack landed on his face on the dirty floor. When he heard the lock click, he allowed himself to groan in pain.

Fire shot through his face, his head pounded still with the electrical shock.

He wasn't tied up, they didn't bother. He tried to push himself up, but only succeeded banging his head. He tasted the blood again, and this time his stomach wouldn't take anymore of the metallic taste.

Though he hadn't eaten anything but the stale water and moldy bread, his stomach churned again at the taste of blood. He was too weak from the loss and the shock to move from his position, he emptied his guts on the floor. Jack sighed when the wave of nausea passed. He was too weak to move, even though his face stung with the acids.

The unit stepped back in shock at this creature, this monster, in front of them. Jack didn't flinch; he never did, at least not anymore…

Except one.

"Come on, Jack. I'm Captain McCollough."

He nods, numbly, just staring at the buttons on the Captain's jacket, never making eye contact.

"We have to get you out of here, sir."

Jack stood, stiffly. Obedient. As always.

"Sir, I…We brought you a set of casuals." The Captain handed Jack the camouflage casuals. The scarred soldier took them in his hands, hands that seemed too big for his scrawny frame.

Jack moved to unbutton the dull gray prisoners uniform, still not saying anything.

"Give him some privacy, guys." The Captain left, ushering his men out. They were bewildered as to why.

But Jack figured why. Captain had seen the carvings on his chest. Fine by him. No one would be able to handle it. He knew that. The girl. He thought of her for the first time in five years. He let himself imagine her. The blonde curls. His…son. He'd almost forgotten. Almost let himself forget for the purposes of saving them. He had to forget, had to protect them, protect them at all cost to himself.

She was really the only reason he'd survived the long days, and the painfilled nights.

He didn't know the Captain had seen the scars across his back as well.

"I want them to back off. Don't fuss over him." He ordered to the sergent. "Leave him to me, and to me only. I don't want them overflowing his mind."

"Who is he sir? If I may ask?"

"Jack Napier. He's been missing for five years."

"Five years? In HERE, sir?"

The Captain nodded. "Back to your duties, sergent. Not another word." Levi McCollough blinked back the tears that were filling his eyes. He hadn't cried, really, since…

When he had given Jack plenty of time to dress in the casuals, McCollough knocked on the door.

"Yes, sir?" Jack's voice sounded husky, and tired, and a little slurred. McCollough entered the small dirty cell.

The Captain handed Jack a thermos. "It's soup."

Jack grabbed it, nearly starved. "Slowly, soldier, slowly. I don't want to send you into shock."

Jack just drank the soup, the meat broth tasted delicious, even though it was probably the prepackaged, instant stuff, Special Ops always lived off of.

He handed the thermos back, wiping his scarred lips, he brushed his hand awkwardly against the Captain's. "Thanks." He still didn't make eye contact.

The Captain nodded ruefully. "It's going to be very bright for you outside , Jack. You've been here for…"

"Five years." Jack finally faced the Captain, but only briefly, before lowering his gaze again. Something in the eyes…made the Captain flinch. He'd seen that look before, a long time ago, so long he barely remembered.

"Yes, sir. I…"

"Don't apologize. The system failed. It always does." Jack's voice was dull, flat, unemotional.

"Yes, sir. We're going to have to fly you out as soon as possible. The Koreans don't like us interfearing in their prisoner affairs."

The shadow of a light smirk appeared on his scarred face, but soon disappeared.

"It will be about a 16 hour plane ride, considering no problems with the weather. You're flying directly to Seattle, after stopping on the Aircraft Carrier John F. Kennedy. Your wife has been notified privately of the mission, but does not yet know that you are alive. We'll stop in Pearl to refuel."

Jack nodded, fully understanding. Maybe she shouldn't know he was alive. He didn't feel alive. He felt like he was nothing but a shell.

"Are you up for it, sir? I could order you to be rehabilitated in Pearl, but you will probably want to see your wife."

Jack didn't reply. He didn't need to.

"You'll be treated at the base there. Sir," Jack looked up, knowing somehow the Captain wanted to face whatever he'd become. "I am sorry." Jack nodded. "We have to leave sir. The helicopter's waiting for you."

Waiting for me, Jack thought. Jenny's waiting for me.

He let them lead him out. The Captain was right, it was extremely bright. He blinked at the bright sunlight, but deeply inhaled the air.

"Give him a moment," the Captain nodded. Jack started walking again. It just felt good to be outdoors. He sat in a seat in the back of the helicopter, and let the Captain strap him in. He didn't want to fall out on his way home. He watched as the unit crammed into the helicopter.

"Alright! Take us home." The Captain caught Jack's eye and smiled. "You're going home, soldier," he said.

Home. Home to Jenny. She'll think I'm a monster, he thinks, as he watches them rise to the clouds. Jack felt tired, his eyelids suddenly exhausted and heavy.

"Go to sleep if you can," the Captain shouted over the noise. "It's going to be a long night."

The Captain would never know how right he really was. He probably didn't want to.

Jack slept until they reached the aircraft carrier, the unit was dropped off, and they then flew to the airport in Pyonyang where the Captain and Jack with a Sergent Michaels borded a jet. First class. There weren't alot of people in first class, and Jack liked the privacy. He soon dozed off again.

"Shouldn't we wake him to eat, sir?"

"No, Sergent, he's had it rough. It's best he sleeps. Probably hasn't slept much in five years."

"What's that?"

"His file. Gotta hand it to him when he gets off, prove he isn't dead. He'll probably get a medal."

"What for?"

"He was in Ops. And he played the game right. Didn't give away his units position or they would have found them. Five years ago, there was a unit in North Korea. Three men went missing, believed captured. The rest escaped. Jack was trained in explosives, knew things about the vulnerablities of buildings, about training captured soldiers, the works. He must have never caved." The Captain stared at the scarred soldier admiringly.

"How did he get those scars?"

Jack stirred.

"SHHH! Probably in torture soldier. An attempt to make him tell what he knew."

"Gosh, and what about..."

"Sleep, sergent, we're in for a long plane ride."

The sergent tilted his seat back, but Captain McCollough never did. He watched Jack sleep, watched the troubled expressions cross his face. Yet Jack only slept for two hours before waking up. He didn't ask for anything. Just stared out the window.

The remaining 10 hours on the jet to Pearl, and the next 2 to Seattle, were more painful agony than the five years in the torture chamber. He went through every possible reaction his wife would have to those horrible scars. It crossed his mind that possibly the military would pay for the surgery, but it wouldn't be the same. Ever again. She wouldn't recognize him, she'd think him a monster...

"We'll arrive in an hour to Seattle, Jack."

Captain McCollough. He didn't get why the soldier was so understanding. Jack didn't want to talk or explain to anyone, and the captain hadn't asked him to. He didn't want to think that was because the captain already knew the truth behind those scars, but at least there was one person he wouldn't have to relive what had happened. Jack flinches as the scruffy soldier sat beside him. The nearness of human presence he wasn't yet adjusted to yet.

_"Oh you won't talk, American? Yes? You won't talk? Fine, then we open your mouth."_

_Knife's blade pressed against his cheek, first opening his cheek, then reopening the old wound from his police days._

Jack winced. He wished he didn't have to remember.

His torturers had been slant-eyed vampires...he closes his eyes...wishing to erase their faces from his memories. Wishing his face...he absentmindly rubs his scarred cheek just barely healing, yet once again. His heart still felt sliced open, as though it had never healed, trickling blood as it fought to pump, just draining him of life. He worried about Jenny, not so much that she'd be with another man, though the thought crossed his mind. But that look of horror on her face, the rejection - it would be just too much, and the torture he'd endured for those five, long, horrible years would have been for nothing.

As the plane landed, his muscles tensed, her reaction, that horrible reaction...he pulls the sweater collar up around his face, covering the scars, hiding his face. He walks off the flight, carrying nothing. His dogtags are somewhere in a Korean sewer, he's wearing borrowed clothes.

He clears his throat on the terminal. "Will she..." he couldn't make himself ask, he didn't want to know the answer.

"She should be here, Jack." Colonel McCollough looked bothered, that she wasn't here

Hearing his name, spoken without malice or witha bad accent for the first time in years, is enough to bring fresh tears to Jack's eyes. He blinks them back. He hasn't cried in those years, and he isn't about to start now.

He waits in the hanger, his head in his hands. Colonel McCollough looks nervous, agitated, as he talks on the phone. Jack wonders why the shifty-eyed young sergent is staring at him.

Is it the scars?


	23. Needlepoint

**~Needlepoint~**

Jason is only stopped by Batman's rage, and then Harley has her chance to get her Mistah J into the delapidated warehouse.

With surgeon's skill, Harley cuts off what's left of Joker's shirt with her butterfly knife. _Gonna need a new suit after that, _she thinks wryly as she disinfects a needle and suture thread. She was good at this. Unbelievably good.

After second thoughts, she removes the switchblade and potato peeler from his pocket, and hides them in the bottom of one of their storage chests. For once he is defenseless, without his knife.

She slams the chest shut, meaning to wake the sleeping giant from his stupor. He moans, "My head…"

Harley wasn't really sure what to feel. She was mostly mad. He deserved this – especially for trying to blow up the bus this morning. And for Jason. The boy was _fifteen _at the time. _Just a kid. _Harley didn't believe in killing children, even though she had no qualms about smashing mobster's heads.

Harley's hands were shaking as she threads the needle. She's taking her sweet time threading it, listening intently to the muffled shouts and the punches. Tears stung her eyes as she realized that Batman had saved Mistah J. _Bats. Imagine!_

Harley poured iodine on the first wound. That oughta wake him up out of the stupor. "Oww.." Joker groaned, regaining consciousness.

"Hold still," Harley was more playing with the needle than anything else.

"Ohh you. You just couldn't let him kill me could you?" Joker smiled at the irony. Dammit. His makeup was smearing on the pillowcases she'd just washed. Dammit.

For once, Harley didn't care if she hurt her patient. "Nope. Bats did. You owe him. Bigtime, Mistah J. Jason could've – _would have _– killed you. And I wouldn't have stopped him." _I couldn't even if I did want to._

Joker began to chuckle, but Harley figured Jason must've broken at least a couple of ribs, because Joker coughed and groaned. "I think I need to go to the hospital…."

"After the stunt you pulled with the school bus? You'll be lucky if they don't start prepping you for autopsy."

"I'll bleed to death," he whined.

Harley slyly slipped the thread out of the needle, and dramatically rethread it, taking her time, making sure he was watching. "You've been through worse," she said, little to no sympathy in her tone. Yet Harley winces at his scar-covered back. Old wounds, overlapping each other. Scald burns, electroshock burns, knife wounds, signs of repeated shots from a needle – signs of torture. _What did they do to that mind of yours? _she wondered for the thousandth time.

But he wouldn't remember. Seeing that – this time in the bright lamplight made Harley angry. Someone just decides to destroy Mistah J, piece by piece. And he ends up more than just "causing chaos" in Gotham City. Tries blowing up a school bus. Almost kills Jason.

"Oooh, Harley's angry…OW!"

She threads the needle through the torn flesh, and she isn't that gentle about it.

"Harley," he lifts his face and looks back at what she's working on, "what makes pooh so angry?'

"Killin' kids, Mistah J. You know I hate it."

"They didn't die."

"You always taught me it's the thought that counts. Now stay still."

"I'm not really in the mood for a battle of wits."

"Maybe I'm not in the mood to stitch you up. Make you do it yourself…" He didn't reply back.

With each punch, Harley's keen ears could tell which punches were Jason's and which were Bats'. As Bats punched, Harley pulled the string just a little. "If it weren't for you this wouldn'ta happened," she reproached.

"Stupid kids," Joker muttered, resting his chin on his hands sulkily.

"Ah-ah. I wouldn't smart off if I were you, Mistah J. This time I have the needle." _And the knife. _

"Ow! Harley!"

"That's what'cha get for tryin' to blow up a busload of kids. And Jason."

She didn't say anything for a long time. Rather she was staring at each intricate scar and focusing on her needlepoint.

"You're quiet."

Harley cut the thread of one of the 20-stitch long wound with her teeth. "What's there to say? You deserved that."

After he'd slipped into unconsciousness again, she could still hear them. They weren't throwing punches anymore. Just shouting at each other. Well, Jason was doing most of the shouting.

"I'm not your _Jay, _anymore." He said, lighting a cigarette, sporting a few bruises and a black eye.

"I think you should see this," Harley said.

"I don't want to see him. I know what I did. I hope it hurts. End of story. Job not done." Jason glared at Bats.

"I'm not talking about what you did Jason. He deserved that. Not this. Not you. Why." Jason looked at Harley as though she'd lost her wits. "Batman. Thanks." Harley blinked, trying not to cry.

Neither man got it. "Just look," Harley wasn't pleading, she was asking.

Batman held Jason by his collar as though he were still Robin. Jason could've fought, but he didn't.

Harley opened the warehouse door. Sprawled, facedown on the bed was Joker. Scars covered his body, old and new. Harley's stitches were neat and even, yet they didn't disguise what previous cruelty had been done.

"Alright, we've seen it. I'm leaving." Jason started to walk out.

"You don't understand, Jay," she said. "Somebody tortured him. Somebody made this monster." Tears filled Harley's eyes. They just didn't get it.

Batman didn't speak for a long time.


	24. Somewhere there's a Circus Animal

**~I've Become So Numb~**

Jack's wife and son were brutally murdered just a week to him coming home, and the anticipation, and then disappointment, combined with the risidual drugs from the prison, and the trama he'd experienced, caused him to all but lose his mind.

She was gone. Gone forever. Jack ran his fingers over the gun as he sat in their empty house. His head throbbed, but it hurt more than it had in the torture chamber. He felt spent, like his head would explode weather he pulled the trigger or not. He didn't have any tears left.

It was all gone. All of it. Their dreams were shattered glass on the floor, dashed to a million pieces. Beyond repair. Jack felt himself slipping. He'd been dreading that she would react, that she would pull back in disgust at his appearance.

She'd been horrified at the first time it had happened. She'd acted like she didn't care, but Jack knew he'd always have a twisted smile. The scar that proved he was too deeply involved to back out now. That was why he'd joined the reserves, hoping to back out, not wanting her involved. The tears came unbidden, but they were more from his pounding head than actual tears. He stared at the newspaper on the floor.

There'd been a horrible accident at Haley's Circus. The Flying Graysons. Jack ruefully remembered that was technically their first date. Haley's Circus. The poster of the clown mask grinned at him. He touched the scars, thinking of the irony that now his twisted smile was complete. And she wasn't here to see it.

And how could the animal have killed his daughter? The daughter he never knew existed. Beast of the night, came, stole them away. The blood had been cleaned off the floor, yes, but Jack still felt it there, screaming at him. Louder than his mother's ever had, his mother's death was something he couldn't have done anything about, but this, this was preventable. Traitor. Hang Man always had it in for him. It didn't help the system already was against him. He had to fight back. But the problem was, he had nothing, nothing to fight for, no cause. But who needed a cause? The killer hadn't needed a cause to kill her, he'd just killed her for no reason, well, mostly out of jealousy, but still. It felt as though the dots were connecting, but it didn't feel right. It felt like when you laid your bets, but you didn't exactly think the cards would win. Or when the Tarot deck just didn't feel "right".

It didn't really set well with Jack, this new "logic" he'd suddenly come across, but what if you're out of chips? It's the last cardplay you're allowed to make. It's do it or die, and at this point he didn't really care if he was dead or not. None of it mattered anymore, not even what she looked like. The memory was fading, more rapidly than Jack had ever wanted. He frantically looked under the bed, dug out the photo. He stared at her face at the wedding. Her blue eyes as the summer sky. But he really didn't remember. He remembered feelings, touches, but not really anything that made sense. Looking at her face was like looking at a stranger. He looked up, only to miserably face a mirror. He blinked at first when it looked as though his face were melting.

The clown makeup. From Halloween night, all those years ago in Juvie. Only this time the lipstick accented the scars on his cheeks. It looked like dripping blood. He rubbed his eyes, pulled his hand away. Nothing. He hated the feeling, but what he'd read about entering euphoria was like that. Scary and strange at first. Nirvana later. The here and the now didn't matter. And the future was something you took it as you went, right. He absentmindly threw the picture in the fireplace. It might have all just been one very happy dream. This was real. Life. It stabbed you in the back when you weren't looking, lit you on fire, consumed your aching heart. He flicked a match at the picture, and the whoosh when the picture ignited and the crackle afterwards gave him a rush. He'd always loved fire, ever since he could remember, how they just consumed everything…

Jack stared into the mirror, Hating the scars. Hating himself as he realized he'd reopened the wounds. He still wasn't used to shaving with those ugly scars in the way. He saw his wife's cosmetics on the sink, as well as the new face paint he'd just bought. He had to find out if the circus had some connection to his wife. But deep down he was in agony. Wishing it all away. He dipped his fingers into the white base. He stared at his empty gaze as smeared the white makeup against his scarred cheek. His fingers remembered how to do this, even if his memory didn't. He didn't bother to rinse his hands before dipping his fingers in the black accent.

Carefully he dabbed black circles around the eyes that he'd used in the Ops. They'd that gave him that terrifying look, it made his golden-brown eyes look black as midnight. He looked at the sink, the blood red lipstick was still there. Jenny's lipstick. He first painted over the scars. But it gave him that Halloween look he'd achieved in juvie. He didn't want the scary look, not yet anyway. He wiped off the lipstick with a paper towel, but it smeared, making it look like his face was still dripping with blood. The scars hadn't really healed as he'd hoped. They were twisted, ugly, as the torturers had intended. He wet another towel with the water from the sink, and wiped his face with care, as to not smear the lipstick further. He washed his hands this time, and reapplied the white to his chin and scarred cheeks.

As he rinsed out the paper towel, he stared at the red trickling down the sink. The thought of his wife's blood churned in his guts. He carefully applied the lipstick to his lips, dabbing it with yet another paper towel to offset the bright redness. He stared at his silly reflection. He rather liked that clownish look. He tried smiling in the mirror, but only managed to achieve a demented-looking grin. Time to do some attempted investigative work.

"Yeah, I'd like a job." The Haley's circus ringmaster looked at the scarred clown quizzically.

"And just who," he asked haughtily, "are you?"

"Smiles."

"Smiles?"

Jack knew he should have come up with a better name. But Jenny had nicknamed him that...it wouldn't do otherwise.

He nodded. "Smiles."

"Uh, and the..."

"The scars? Do you really have to ask?" Jack felt his temper welling up again, a monstrous beast out of control. But the tears misted in his eyes anyway. He chuckled to cover it up, but it somehow made the pain worse. But it was familiar, comforting. He figured it would smear the black eye accent, but he knew no one would notice. They never did. "It doesn't matter."

"Actually," the ringmaster began, "I'm surprised you'd join us, after..."

"The accident? Accidents happen. It's a circus." He shrugged non-chalantly, not wanting to reveal the real reason he was there.

"You'll need a costume," the agent muttered.

"What about the reverse of that?" Jack gestured awkwardly to the ringmaster's distasteful lime green jacket with the purple vest.

"Uh, no. That wouldn't do." The ringmaster's face was twisted in a scornful expression.

The ringmaster snapped his fingers in front of Jack's face before he could get too entranced by the fire-breathers, with their flames dancing in his eyes.

As they walked through the acrobats tent, Jack saw the in the center of the ring, underneath the trapeze, which looked brand-new. He saw red-brown splatters in the dust.

Jack didn't feel the usual surge in his gut that was normal when he saw blood. The years of torture had taken care of that.

"Man, it was awful, you should've seen the way they bounced when they hit the ground. We just lost our cash cow. Some creepy philanthropist took the boy. Paid good money for him, too."

Jack knew what that was all about. It went without saying. He didn't know why he felt like laughing just then. It was all just cruelly ironic. He investigated his wife's murder, finding the Grayson's had nothing to do with it, just that one who had returned from his unit had gotten jealous.

And so even his unit betrayed him...


	25. Only in My Dreams

**Only in My Dreams**

The city smolders around her. Nothing but empty blackened buildings and shattered glass. Fires still flickering in the alleyways. Joker's dream. Burned city.

Harley pushes open the door to the old familiar hotel. What she expects is the usual dirty floor and the filthy walls…

But instead it is a rather nice contemporary beige walls, and a geometric patterned floor. It could be classified as four-star….and…the serious face of a gentleman. A light smile crosses his face, and gold-brown eyes sparkle in the lamplight. His eyes light up in recognition, and he offers his hand.

Harley brushes her fingertips against his hand. "Do I know you?" she asks. "You feel so…"

"Familiar?" He asks, as his real smile spreads wider, dimples accentuating an all-to-familiar smile…

"What's your name?" she asks, hoping against all hope he won't pull away, reatreat into his normal monstrous self… And why were the scars not on his face? The smile was reaching his eyes, lighting them with sparkling glitter…

"Jack," he says, his eyes still twinkling, his smile still gentle.

Harley suddenly wants desperately to cry, to hug him, to kiss him, to make him feel loved…forever…

He angles his gaze to look at her. "Is this my dream, or yours?"

She draws back. _He doesn't know? _Suddenly a rush of happiness went through Harley's heart.

He bends down and kisses her on the cheek, and whispers in her ear, tickling her with his breath. "What, you don't know either, do you?"

"What happened to you?" she asks, tracing a line where the scars used to be with a fingertip – noting how really beautiful he was with his blonde curls and dimpled smile…

"Torture," he answered simply, shadows passing across his gaze. "Five years of it."

"Jack, I.."

He places his finger over her lips, suddenly he wants to tell his story, wants someone to know. "Worse was my wife, my son, my baby…all gone. Nothing left."

"Jack…"

"The heart has to go on, one way or another, even if it creates a monster to protect itself, erase one's own existence…" He stares into the distance, almost apologetic…

"Why did you delete your file?" The question slipped out without her meaning to.

He meets her eyes yet again, and this time they are filled with a secret pain of the realization of failure. "Do you have to ask?" His eyes are dark again, not dark with anger, but their familiar dark just the same, the dark Harley knows all to well.

"No, I don't have to ask," she says, kissing the corner of his mouth, "I know why you did it."

Harley opened her eyes to complete blackness, except for the flickering street light. _Just a dream, _she thinks with disappointment as she breathes carefully to quiet her beating heart.

"So, why did I do it, Harley?"

The voice spooked her for a minute before she swallowed, and answered slowly, "You told me, Jack. Your heart had to manage one way or another; your mind couldn't take the strain. You didn't want to go on, but you had to make them pay first."

She heard nothing but his ragged breathing for the longest time. Finally he mumbled and rolled over. She felt him sit up, and grumble as he walked into the washroom. "What's wrong…Puddin'?" she stopped herself, from saying his name, suddenly longing she could say it. It was so common, so ordinary, and yet so right.

"Got a headache. Where's that stuff you gave me the other night?" His voice was strangely quiet, not rough and rock-solid as it had been.

"You mean the Dipthodryn?" she asks timidly, throwing off the covers, yet not daring to hope that some miracle had occurred.

"I don't know," he said, leaning over the sink, his eyes dull and bloodshot, the wounds from the beating ugly purple. He wasn't harsh, which was what she expected. Just in pain. He stares at her through squinting blackened eyes, looking more like the person she knows deep down who he really is: hurt and broken…


	26. Numb

**~All it Takes is a Little Push~**

Jack hunted down the man who had killed his wife. He happened to be a computer hacker, a skilled one too. But this amused "Jack" to no end. He found the "monster", tied him up, and imprisioned him in his own house, threatening to kill him (though he intended to anyway) if he didn't modify his own file to have him be listed as a psychopath. Knowing how much society hates them, "Jack" figured it would be a worse torture to have the "man", though Jack never thought of him as human, make his own record.

The monster was crying, big tears rolling down his cheeks and dripping onto the keyboard. He typed "psychopathic rapist" in the blank space of his file.

Jack, feeling no empathy for the terrified killer, chewed his split lip impatiently. "Hurry it up, come on, come on." Jack felt himself slipping. Losing it. His voice didn't even sound the same, but…he should have expected that, shouldn't he? Nothing was the same anymore. Things were forever changed.

"You're a…you're crazy…"

"A-ta-ta-ta." Jack noted his voice didn't sound like his own. It was dark, fierce; it almost scared him. His head throbbed. What was wrong with him? "I'm _not _crazy. Shut up, and finish _that." _

The guy typed in a series of keys. "It's done."

"'Bout damn time." Jack threw the gun across the room, and flipped open his lucky knife. He held the blade just bare inches from the man's face. The monster's terrified eyes made Jack feel strangely satisfied.

Jack picked up the rock paperweight and skillfully sharpened his knife. He watched the sweat beads drip down the guys face.

"You wanna know how I got this scars?" he asked, his gold-brown eyes nearly blackish-green with hate. He decided the bastard didn't deserve to know the truth. Hell, even he could feel the memory slipping. He didn't want the decoration for bravery. Jack Mitchell wasn't a hero, Jack Mitchell was dead.

"I fell, off a cliff." Jack put his blade in the man's mouth. "And you know what? Now I see the funny side. Now, I'm always smiling." Jack glared menacingly at his wife's killer. "I'm just a _Fool_, walking the earth in euphoria. No name, no past. Just undead."

The man gasped for air, he was terrified.

"Smile for the camera," Jack said as he sliced the man's mouth open. He sputtered, spitting blood. Jack just grinned again, giving him a crazed appearance. "You thought I'd kill you quickly didn't you?" He asked as he again sliced through soft flesh of the monster's face and the man screamed in agony. "Don't you know never to believe a _Fool's _ promise?" Jack laughed, but it sounded high and strange, not like him at all. He shoved the killer to the floor, letting the monster drown in his own blood.

He didn't bother to glove his hands as he opened his own file, and hit the delete key. _Are you sure you want to delete the following files? Jack Mitchell, MIA, United States Marine Corps_. He hit the return key again without a second thought. _Deleting now..file processing…please wait... _He tapped his fingers on the desk impatiently, noticing the deck of cards that sat on the hard drive. _Deletion complete. _And now, it would appear as though Jack Mitchell never existed. To the rest of the world, he was a nameless ghost, a terror of the night. Though rather cruel irony. The real Jack Mitchell had died in a torture chamber somewhere in North Korea. As final justice, Jack hit the return key a final time, and took the deck of cards off the top of the hard drive.

"Blook flan, I'ma sowwy!" he splutterred weakly.

Jack didn't reply, rather he left the monster, bleeding on the floor. Then expertly crossed the electrical wires connected to the breaker. He walked out, letting the door slam behind him. As the house burst into flames, and the pipes exploded, Jack looked back, satisfied. He flipped a card off the top of the deck. The trump. The Fool. The Joker.

Jack Mitchell was dead. The Joker lived.


	27. Remember When

**Remember When**

His eyes flashed open, awakened by some unknown force. He sat up on one elbow. Soft breathing sounded beside him. He watched her sleep, the slim frame clothed in the red silk nightie, her pale skin contrasting with the dark colour of her clothes. Her body shaking with cold, her face twisted in something between concentration and pain.

He didn't understand the _feelings _coursing between his heart and brain, something like a bittersweet pain, it had been a _long _time since he'd felt such things. _Perhaps forever._

He didn't remember. Her face wasn't… He knew her name wasn't…oh for god sakes why didn't he _remember_? Maybe he didn't want to remember.

_Jenny. _

One name. Only one. Just that name alone sent surprising shocks of _agony _through his system. And he didn't know why. He hadn't felt _that _since…he didn't _remember _when.

The girl stirred beside him, burying her wan face in the sheets on the lumpy mattress, revealing a prominent scar on her neck, shaped like a set of diamonds.

_Had he done that? _He remembered nimbly wielding the knife, kissing her on the cheek, and the metallic taste of blood, weather hers or his own, he wasn't quite sure, but he didn't actually _remember _doing it.

A blonde beauty with wavy hair coursed through his thoughts. Bloodstains on the floor. "I'm sorry, sir." The military salute. "Joker, please!" "The sound of dirt hitting the coffin. "You talk, American!" The sound of explosions as the fire reached the water pipes. Electrical shocks coursing through his system. "Look, Joker, I…"The sound of metal ripping flesh, his own laughter, the youngster's pleading… like a movie trailer he couldn't stop…

He rubbed his forehead. Her body quaked with shivers. _Who was that kid? _He knew he was supposed to know. Awkwardly he threw the blanket over her shoulders.

The fragments of _memories? _were painful. How did Jenny become…_that girl_? As the awful truth dawned on him : _she wasn't. _

But unfortunately for him, there was no one he dared to ask, no one he dared trust enough with the insane secret – or the_ punchline_, or whatever it was.

He did know one thing. He couldn't sleep. He got off the mattress on the floor, not realizing the old wooden floor creaked. He didn't notice as he stumbled to the washroom. He turned on the faucet, splashing the ice-cold water against his face. He looked up to the cracked mirror, only to meet the face of a scarred monster reflecting back at him – the dirty green hair, the smeared clown makeup, the crazed eyes, the scarred face, the recent wounds…

He took the towel next to the sink, running the ice water on it. He tried switching to lukewarm, then hot, but the temperature didn't change. There wasn't any hot water. He sighed, but rubbed the towel over his face, cleaning off the makeup. Maybe then he would remember…

The cold water against his scarred face was a little shocking, but soothing to his throbbing head. He rubbed off the makeup, seemingly staining the towel white, red and black.

The makeup took some doing to get off but he worked at it, and slowly he revealed the scars which decorated his face in a twisted smile.

He noted the healing wounds – slash marks – his swollen eye. He remembered only bits and pieces of the fight. The kid was really angry, he remembered that much.

He knew he'd seen this reflection before, but he didn't understand why the scarred face and the crazed eyes looked so _unfamiliar… _

_Fin._

_A/N: There's a reason I'm ending here. I want you to decide what Joker would do. Would he change, would he go back to the monster he's allowed himself to become, or would he not be able to live with the regret?_

_I know the final chapters are a bit confusing, just PM with any questions._

_Thanks for reading! _


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